•-.-.•       ••     • 


Y  W  n.  DAWS  O.H 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

Dr.  Waldemar  West- 
ergaard 


W.  H.  DAWSON. 


Sunshine  of  Hope 


and 


Other  Poems 

BY 

W.   H.   DAWSON 

< 


With 
Special    Illustrations 


Modern  Woodman  Press 
Rock  Island.  III. 

1910 


COPYRIGHT    1910 

—  BY  — 

W.  H.  DAWSON 


ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


INTRODUCTION 

fN  presenting  to  a  much-bored  public  this  little 
*•  book,  which  one  of  my  dearest  friends  has 
christened  "  Sunshine  of  Hope,"  I  desire  to  state, 
by  way  of  introduction,  as  well  as  apology,  that 
most  of  the  manuscript  was  written  with  no 
intention  on  my  part  of  ever  having  it  published, 
and  the  only  thing  that  has  prompted  me  to  per 
mit  its  publication  at  this  time  is  the  hope  that  I 
may  by  so  doing  assist,  in  a  humble  way,  in  the 
building  of  the  great  Modern  Woodmen  Sana 
torium  for  the  cure  of  tuberculosis,  at  Colorado 
Springs,  Colo.  I  trust,  however,  that  in  the 
reading  of  these  simple  outbursts  from  the 
soul  of  the  writer  you  may  gather  some  helpful 
thoughts  and  feel  that  you  have  not  only  not 
misspent  your  time,  but  that  you  have  spent  it 
profitably.  Whatever  the  little  book  may  lack 
in  meeting  your  ideal  will  only  reflect  the  weak 
ness  of  the  author;  therefore,  do  not  condemn, 

but  pardon. 

Yours  for  uplift, 

W.  H.  DAWSON. 


537148 


So  My  Afflicted  Fellow  Mortals: 
I  affectionately  dedicate  this  edition 
of  "Sunshine  of  Hope. " 


W.  H.  D. 


CONTENTS 

A  Bluff  on  Conscience 42 

Actions  Speak  Louder  Than  Words      ....  9 

A  Dream  of  Mother 83 

A  Handshake 10 

Baby 16 

Baby  Impressions  Preserved 46 

Champeen  Speller      72 

Color  Effect 12 

Count  Your  Blessings 25 

Dinner  Table  D'Hote 86 

Doing  Nothing 77 

Don't,  My  Boy,  Feel  Blue 28 

Don't  You  Do  It 58 

Don't  Worry      11 

Dot  Heine  Schild 32 

Fishing 66 

Fraternity 56 

God  in  Nature 40 

God's  Sunshine 61 

God  Will  Count  Your  Honest  Try 49 

Golden  Gate  Sunset 26 

Good-bye,  Old  Grip 52 

Grandpa  and  I 22 

Gran'ma 76 

Guide  Thou  My  Steps 68 

Heaven 93 

Hello  Bill       27 

HogKillin' 33 

Home 13 

Homesick      21 

If  We  But  Knew 55 

I'm  Saddest  When  I  Sing 57 


CONTENTS— Continued 

Inconsistent  English  Spelling 31 

In  Old  Killarney 41 

In  the  Beginning 63 

It  Doesn't  Pay  to  Fret 54 

Mental  Evolution 14 

Minnehaha — Hiawatha 62 

Morning  Sleighride 48 

My  God 51 

My  Scotch  Collie 70 

Napping 30 

New  Pledge  to  Love 43 

Papa's  Imitator       8 

Parody  on  "Psalm  of  Life" 74 

Resignation 67 

Smelling  Contest 20 

Spirit  of  Discontent 84 

Spooks 88 

Strange,  But  True 79 

Sunshine  of  Hope 7 

Thanksgiving 89 

The  Awful  Blues 47 

The  Cigarette 71 

The  Frog 50 

The  Hem  of  His  Garment 69 

The  Land  Where  All  Sweethearts  Are  True  .    .  44 

The  Little  Jap 78 

The  Nurse 92 

The  Pessimist 60 

There  is  a  Difference 38 

The  Tramp 17 

Trust  Lessons 82 

Uncle  Josh's  Opinion  on  Poetic  License    ...  90 


SUNSHINE  OF  HOPE. 

(Af.  W.  of  A.  Sanatorium.) 

Between  old  Cedar  Mountain  and  Mount  Rose, 
Where  Colorado's  Rocky  Mountain  snows 
Come  rippling  by  with  happy,  joyous  bound, 
And  mountain  flowers  in  greatest  wealth  are  found; 
Where  brightly  shines  the  sun  the  whole  glad  year; 
Where  healing  zephyrs  bring  good  health — good  cheer; 
Tis  there  the  grandest  Order  in  the  land, 
Has  built  its  fort  and  made  determined  stand 
Against  the  onslaught  of  that  dreadful  foe — 
Tuberculosis.    God  direct  each  blow. 

Tis  there  God's  sunshine  brings  th'  afflicted  hope; 
Tis  there  God's  pure  air  gives  him  breathing  scope; 
Tis  there  new  life  breaks  in  upon  his  soul, 
And  he  becomes  again  a  man — made  whole. 
Divine  the  mind  that  first  inspired  the  thought; 
Divine  the  hand  which  has  this  wonder  wrought; 
Divinely  guided  have  His  servants  been, 
Who  first  the  impulse  felt,  and  drank  it  in; 
Divine  the  origin  of  any  plan, 
Which  makes  man  feel  himself  a  friend  to  man. 

So,  'twixt  old  Cedar  Mountain  and  Mount  Rose, 
Is  found  Love's  shrine,  upon  whose  altar  glows 
"Sunshine  of  Hope;"  the  gift  of  God  and  man, 
United  in  one  grand,  fraternal  plan, 
To  give  new  life  to  His  afflicted  sons — 
Our  Neighbors — through  whose  every  vein  there  runs 
As  loyal  blood  as  courses  through  our  own; 
But  in  whose  bodies  seeds  of  disease  are  sown. 
Father,  help  them — help  us — in  this,  Thy  cause, 
To  know  Thy  will  and  to  observe  Thy  laws. 


PAPA'S  IMITATOR. 

I's  mos'  as  big  as  bwozzer  Mose, 

An'  he's  mos'  big  as  Pa, 
'Cause  I  put  on  my  bwozzer's  clo'se 

An'  nen  went  to  my  Ma, 
An'  she  des  hugged  me  mos'  in  two, 

An'  said  I's  mos'  a  man. 
Say,  I  wish  bwozzer'd  wear  Pa's  blue 

Suit,  what's  new,  so's  I  can 
Wear  his'n  all  'e  time,  so's  I  can  be 

A  man  like  my  Pa  is, 
An'  dwive  ze  team  over  to  see 

Gwamma,  an'  say  "Gee-whiz," 
An'  smoke  Pa's  pipe,  an'  spit  all  red 

When  I  eats  plug  pobac — 
Git  mad  an'  hit  Mose  on  ze  head, 

An'  he  can't  hit  me  back. 
G —  Ooh !    I  mos'  said  gee-whiz  nen, 

'Cause  I  fought  I  was  a  man. 
I  fink  I  ain't,  but  will  be  when — 

Well,  des  soon  as  I  can. 


I's  mos'  as  big  as  bwozzer  Mose, 
An'  he's  mos'  big  as  Pa. 


ACTIONS  SPEAK  LOUDER  THAN 
WORDS. 

Tis  not  enough  that  I  should  say, 
At  early  dawn  of  each  new  day, 
"No  wrong  this  day  will  I  commit, 
Nor  will  I  with  the  scornful  sit" 
Tis  not  enough  if  I  should  meet 
A  widowed  one,  that  I  should  greet 
Her  with  condolence,  and  express 
My  sorrow  for  her  great  distress. 
Tis  not  enough  that  I  should  lay 
My  hand  upon  his  head  and  say 
Unto  the  orphan  child,  "My  boy, 
May  all  your  life  be  peace  and  joy." 
Tis  not  enough  if  I  should  know 
That  enemies  conspire  to  throw 
Around  your  home  shame  and  disgrace; 
That  I  should  simply  turn  my  face 
And  say,  "  I  will  not  stand  and  see 
A  neighbor  treated  shamefully." 
Tis  not  profession's  empty  boast 
That  makes  us  for  the  right  a  host: 
Tis  not  the  things  that  we  profess 
That  help  the  needy  world  to  bless. 
My  duty  has  not  been  well  done, 
Until  with  eagerness  I  run 
To  do  the  will  of  Him  who  said, 
"Heal  ye  the  sick  and  raise  the  dead." 
Religion  pure  and  undefiled 
Means,  help  the  widow  and  her  child; 
Tis  better  to  relieve  an  ill, 
Than  just  to  know  our  Father's  will. 


A  HANDSHAKE. 

There's  something  in  the  friendly  grasp 

Of  any  right  good,  honest  hand, — 
It  may  be  the  peculiar  clasp, 

Just  what,  I  can't  quite  understand; 
But  something  makes  one  seem  to  know 

That  "hand  to  hand"  means  "heart  to  heart," 
And  one  good  handshake  starts  a  glow 

That  dies  not  out  soon  as  we  part. 
Then  clasp  the  hand  of  honest  toil, 

And  clasp  the  hand  of  smothered  pain ; 
Plant  germs  of  friendship  in  heart-soil — 

They'll  grow,  an  hundredfold  they'll  gain. 


DON'T  WORRY. 

Don't  worry,  Bill,  for  what's  the  use 
Of  worrying?    There's  no  excuse 
For  doing  that  which  brings  no  aid, 
And  you  know  worry  never  made 
The  load  you've  had  to  bear  seem  light, 
Nor  helped  to  make  your  pathway  bright: 
It  never  helped  to  ease  the  pain 
Of  aching  heart  or  throbbing  brain, 
Nor  helped  to  chase  away  the  blues — 
Don't  worry,  Bill,  for  what's  the  use? 


COLOR  EFFECT. 

Have  you  noticed  that  some  colors 

Really  grate  upon  your  nerves, 
Till  you  feel  just  like  the  pitcher 

Looks,  when  he  is  twirling  curves, 
Trying  hard  to  fan  the  batter, 

Causing  him  to  pound  the  air — 
Feeling  for  the  little  bullet 

Just  to  find  it  was  not  there? 
Other  colors  set  you  frantic, 

Calling  back  your  childhood  days, 
When  you  cut  some  funny  antic, 

Or  engaged  in  childish  plays. 
Others  set  the  pumps  agoing, 

And  the  fountain  of  your  tears 
Starts,  in  spite  of  you,  to  flowing 

Like  it  flowed  in  other  years. 
But  the  one  that  really  thrills  your 

Heart  until  you  want  to  sing, 
Is  the  red  which  you  discovered, 

When  a  boy,  in  blackbird's  wing. 


HOME. 

The  house  in  which  one  lives  is  but  a  shell 

Of  stone,  and  wood,  and  clay  with  paint  spread  o'er, 
And  when  sweet  stories  about  home  we  tell, 

We  mean  not  just  the  house  alone,  but  more. 
When  one  has  kissed  his  loved  ones  a  good-bye, 

And  for  a  fortnight  travels  to  and  fro, 
Returns  unto  his  home  the  latch  to  try, 

And  finds  the  pesky  little  thing  won't  go, 
And  takes  his  night  key  and  unlocks  the  door, 

And  finds  the  house  as  quiet  as  a  mouse — 
His  wife  and  babies,  just  the  day  before 

Had  gone — it  is  not  home.    It's  just  a  house. 
Tis  then  one  comes  to  really  understand 

The  meaning,  in  its  truest  sense,  of  home. 
Tis  then  that  all  the  houses  in  the  land, 

Builded  earth  wide  and  high  as  heaven's  dome, 
With  floors  of  gold,  and  walls  of  jassamine. 

And  ceilings  all  bedecked  with  jewels  rare, 
Mantels  of  pearl,  and  bric-a-brac  thrown  in, 

Would  not  be  home,  with  wife  and  babes  not  there. 


MENTAL  EVOLUTION. 

Say,  Bill,  don't  you  remember, 

When  you  an'  me  was  small, 
How  all  the  houses  looked  so  big, 

An'  all  the  trees  so  tall, 
An'  we  could  look  an'  see  jest  where 

The  sky  come  to  the  ground? 
Twas  jest  about  a  mile  from  us, 

Per  all  the  way  around, 
An'  that,  to  us,  was  the  whole  world ; 

We  knowed  of  nothin'  more. 
Our  knowledge  of  earth's  magnitude 

Was  jest  about  "two  by  four." 
An'  we  never  knowedmo  better 

Till  one  day  when  Uncle  Ike 
Come  drivin'  like  the  mischief, 

Down  that  old  river  pike, 
An'  stoppin'  sudden  at  our  gate, 

He  said  that  Uncle  Jim 
Was  at  his  house,  most  awful  sick, 

An'  we  all  went  home  with  him. 
An'  you  an'  me  both  sot  behind, 

In  that  old  wagon-box, 
An'  jolted  us  'most  inside  out, 

O'er  stumps,  an'  roots,  an'  rocks; 
Till  Uncle  struck  that  prairie  road, 

An'  started  toward  the  sun : 
That's  where  the  spreadin'-out  process 

In  you  an'  me  begun. 
We  noticed  that  the  place  where  earth 

Had  always  met  the  sky, 
Was  jest  as  far  ahead  of  us, 

An'  we  both  wondered  why. 


But  lookin'  back  along  the  path 
That,  sometimes  rough,  I've  trod, 

I  think  I  see  at  every  turn 
The  guidin'  hand  of  God. 


An'  ever  since  that  day,  old  boy, 

The  earth  an'  sky's  been  growin', 
But  Oh,  the  years  have  gone  so  fast; 

So  short  the  time  for  sowin'. 
But  lookin'  back  along  the  path 

That,  sometimes  rough,  I've  trod, 
I  think  I  see  at  every  turn, 

The  guidin'  hand  of  God. 
From  that  small  world  whose  bound'ry  was 

Where  heaven  touched  the  ground, 
To  this  great,  boundless  universe; 

Along  the  road  I've  found 
That  when  the  path  seemed  darkest, 

An'  my  soul  was  filled  with  dread, 
If  I  reached  my  hand  out  heavenward, 

I  was  always  safely  led. 
But,  thinkin'  of  that  startin'  point, 

An'  how  things  have  spread  out, 
I  wonder,  when  this  life  is  done, 

If  we're  not  jest  about 
Ready  to  start  in  on  one 

That's  always  goin'  to  grow, 
An'  spread,  an'  widen,  an'  expand, 

An'  like  a  river  flow, 
Until  our  knowledge  has  no  bound — 

Our  joy  is  unconfined, 
An'  we  become  like  unto  God, 

In  love,  an'  soul,  an'  mind. 


BABY. 

Hear  the  baby's  joyful  cooing, 
As  he  climbs  up  by  the  chair. 

Now  look  out!    There's  something  doing- 
See  him  sieze  the  the  teddy  bear. 

There!    He  threw  it  in  the  cream-jar — 
Now  he  pulls  it  out  again. 

Now  he  plays  that  it's  a  choo-car — 
Creeps  and  drags  it  for  his  train. 

Now  comes  mama  and  discovers 
Streaks  of  cream  across  her  rug; 

Baby's  face  with  kisses  covers, 
Alternating  kiss  with  hug. 


THE  TRAMP. 

Hi  there,  ol' pal!    Ye  busy? 

If  not,  le's  have  a  chat; 
Come  sit  down  here  beside  me 

An'  tell  me  what  ye're  at. 
The  sun  shines  warm  an'  tender — 

Looks  like  we  might  have  spring, 
But  we'll  need  some  heavy  showers 

'Fore  the  grass  '11  do  a  thing. 
Las'  night,  in  that  ol'  box  car, 

I  tried  to  get  some  sleep, 
But  I'd  doze  an'  dream  of  laughter, 

An'  that  ol'  hillside  steep 
Where  Jess,  an'  Jim,  an'  Bender, 

An'  this  ol'  trampin'  wreck — 
When  we  were  boys  together — 

Used  to  race  down,  neck  an'  neck. 
I  dreamed  I  was  a  boy  again, 

With  Bender,  Jim  an'  Jess, 
An'  everything  was  happenin' 

That  happened  then,  I  guess. 
I  heard  the  birds  a-singin' 

In  the  ol',  tall  sugar  trees: 
I  heard  the  squirrels  barkin', 

An'  I  heard  the  hum  of  bees : 
I  heard  young  Bender  laughin' 

Till  I  thought  he'd  split  his  throat, 
An'  Jess  an'  Jim  was  echoin' 

Young  Bender's  every  note; 
While  I,  half  dazed,  an'  covered 

From  head  to  foot  with  dirt, 
Was  tryin'  to  regain  my  feet, 

In  my  ruined  pants  an'  shirt. 


I  dreamed  the  whole  thing  over 

Just  as  it  happened  then, 
I  haven't  had  a  dream  like  that 

Since — I  can't  tell  you  when. 
Ye  see,  we'd  started  racin', 

An'  when  half  way  down  the  hill 
I  took  a  "slide  there  Kelley," 

An'  a  tumble  fit  to  kill. 
I'd  skinned  my  shins  completely — 

Knocked  the  nails  off  half  my  toes; 
All  my  front  teeth  I'd  swallowed — 

Raked  the  bark  all  off  my  nose : 
I'd  lost  the  race,  too,  mind  ye — 

That  hurt  me  worst  of  all — 
I  didn't  care  much  for  the  hurt, 

An'  nothin'  for  the  fall ; 
But  it  just  seemed  from  that  minute 

That  the  world  had  'gainst  me  turned, 
An'  by  everybody  in  it 

I  was  slighted,  scoffed,  an'  spurned. 
An'  from  that  scene  I  started 

Out  a-lookin'  for  a  friend; 
From  the  boys,  right  there,  I  parted — 

An'  my  searchin's  had  no  end. 
But  I've  always  felt  that  maybe 

I  was  hasty  an'  unwise; 
An'  I've  always  longed  for  mother, 

An'  not  with  tearless  eyes. 
I'd  give  the  world  to  see  her, 

An'  hear  her  once  more  say, 
"Here  comes  my  darling  Freddie," 

As  she  did  the  other  day. 
The  other  day? — I'm  dreaming. 

The  other  day?    It's  twenty  years 


Since  I  left  home  an'  mother, 

An'  today  I'm  filled  with  fears 
That  she  has  crossed  the  river, 

An'  left  me  here  alone. 
Can  I  e'er  be  forgiven? 

Oh,  how  can  I  atone 
For  the  worry  that  I've  caused  her? 

The  silent  flow  of  tears? 
The  anxious  hours  of  longin' — 

Yes,  days,  an'  months,  an'  years. 
Can  her  lovin'  heart  forgive  me? 

How  I  long  to  hear  her  say, 
"  Your  mother  loves  you,  Freddie," 

As  she  did  the  other  day. 
I'll  start  straight  home  this  mornin', 

An'  I  pray  God  to  forgive ; 
An'  I'll  never  leave  my  mother, 

Long  as  God  'lows  her  to  live. 


SMELLING  CONTEST. 

Some  day  if  your  nose 

Should  "get  on  a  tear," 

And  cease  doing  business, 

And  shut  out  the  air, 

To  exclude  from  its  presence 

A  strong-smelling  pair, 

Would  you  keep  your  mouth  shut? 

Or,  suppose  that  instead 

Of  this  rank  smelling  pair, 

Your  nose  should  find  one 

Of  them  filling  the  air 

With  his  loud  smelling  odor, 

Then  would  it  be  fair 

That  you  keep  your  mouth  shut? 

Now,  this  loud  smelling  pair, 

Tis  but  fair  that  I  state, 

Are  the  rank  cigarette 

And  his  no  less  strong  mate — 

Limberger  cheese — 

Both  smell  to  hell's  gate: 

Would  you  keep  your  mouth  shut? 

Now,  would  you  sit  still 

And  let  them  impose 

Upon  the  olfactory 

Nerves  of  your  nose, 

While  your  poor  stomach  threatened 

Its  contents  to  disclose? 

Would  you  keep  your  mouth  shut? 


HOMESICK. 

"You  look  as  though  misfortune  had 

Swept  all  your  joys  away. 
Pray  tell  me,  Jack,  has  something  bad 

Camped  on  your  trail  today? 
Has  Fanny  written  you  bad  news? 

Is  baby  ill,  or  what 
The  dickins?    Have  you  got  the  blues? 

Come,  tell  me  on  the  spot. 
Dad-burn-it,  Jack,  why  don't  you  smile? 

Your  face  looks  like  a  pall: 
What  are  you  thinking  all  the  while?" 

"Just  homesick,  that  is  all. 
It  seems  to  me  a  great  mistake — 

The  worst  I  can  conceive — 
For  any  married  man  to  make — 

Wife,  babes  and  home  to  leave, 
And  grip  in  hand,  become  a  tramp, 

At  boss's  beck  and  call. 
Doggoned  if  I  don't  skip  the  camp — 

I'm  homesick,  that  is  all." 


GRANDPA  AND  I. 

When  I  was  but  a  baby  boy, 
At  mother's  breast, 

Grandpa  and  I, 
On  his  old  farm,  in  Illinois — 
Then  called  "out  west," 

Grandpa  and  I 

Were  friends  as  close  as  e'er  you  knew: 
He'd  do  whate'er  I  wished  him  to; 
We  were  each  to  the  other  true — 

Grandpa  and  I. 

We  were  together  day  and  night, 
On  that  old  farm, 

Grandpa  and  I : 

Whate'er  he  did  for  me  was  right. 
We  feared  no  harm — 

Grandpa  and  I. 

At  night  he'd  take  me  in  his  bed; 
When  hungry,  I  was  by  him  fed : 
Oh,  what  a  happy  life  we  led, 

Grandpa  and  I. 

When  I  had  learned  to  run  and  walk, 
We'd  walk  about, 

Grandpa  and  I : 
He'd  listen  to  my  childish  talk, 
When  we  were  out, 

Grandpa  and  I : 

With  thread  for  line  and  pin  for  hook, 
He'd  take  me  fishing  in  the  brook, 
And  seat  us  in  some  shady  nook, 

Grandpa  and  I. 


Grandpa  and  I 

Were  friends  as  close  as  e'er  you  knew: 
He'd  do  whate'er  I  wished  him  to ; 
We  were  each  to  the  other  true- 
Grandpa  and  I. 


And  when  I  had  grown  larger  still, 
On  old  Fill's  back, 

Grandpa  and  I, 

Would  ride  down  to  the  old  grist  mill, 
With  corn  in  sack — 

Grandpa  and  I. 

I  used  to  watch  the  old  millwheel, 
While  corn  was  grinding  into  meal, 
And  when  'twas  done,  how  glad  we'd  feel, 

Grandpa  and  I. 

Sometimes  he'd  take  me  on  his  back, 
In  forest  wild, 

Grandpa  and  I, 

And  put  the  dog  on  'possum's  track, 
To  please  the  child — 

Grandpa  and  I. 

And  when  we'd  hear  the  old  dog  bay, 
He'd  quicken  his  tired  steps  that  way, 
And  "Sick  'im,  Spry!"  we  both  would  say- 
Grandpa  and  I. 

And  oftentimes  on  Thursday  night, 
To  church  we'd  go, 

Grandpa  and  I. 

We  went  because  he  thought  'twas  right — 
Through  rain  or  snow, 

Grandpa  and  I. 

Before  the  prayers  were  all  said, 
I'd  have,  Oh,  such  a  sleepy  head, 
And  dream  we  were  at  home  in  bed, 

Grandpa  and  I. 


And  thus  my  boyhood  days  were  spent- 
Oh,  happy  days — 

Grandpa  and  I. 

I  went  with  him  where'er  he  went — 
Learned  his  quaint  ways, 

Grandpa  and  I. 

Until  death  took  him  from  my  side — 
Companion,  counsellor  and  guide: 
But  some  day  we'll  walk  side  by  side — 

Grandpa  and  I. 


COUNT  YOUR  BLESSINGS. 

Tis  strange  but  true  that  common  things, 

Like  sunshine,  rain  and  snow, 
The  happy  little  bird  that  sings, 

The  fragrant  flowers  that  grow; 
The  meals  with  which  we're  blessed  each  day, 

The  sweet  sleep  of  the  night, 
The  friends  who  ever  with  us  stay, 

The  shadows  and  the  light, 
The  tender  care  of  mother  dear, 

The  kiss  of  loving  wife, 
The  baby  prattle  that  we  hear — 

The  best  things  in  our  life — 
Are  not  loved  by  us  half  so  well 

As  things  that  seem  more  rare. 
For  instance  some  old,  broken  bell, 

Or  stone  picked  up  somewhere; 
An  ancient  coin  with  unknown  date, 

An  arrow  head  of  stone, 
Or  piece  of  broken  armor  plate 

Worn  by  some  one  unknown. 
Exclusive  ownership  we  crave, 

No  matter  what  the  prize — 
True  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

Of  foolish  and  of  wise. 
Oh,  selfish  mortal,  don't  you  know 

Twould  better  be,  by  far, 
If  you  would  train  your  love  to  grow 

Among  the  things  that  are 
Just  common  to  your  daily  life? 

You've  blessings  by  the  score, 
Then  why  engage  in  constant  strife 

For  more,  and  more,  and  more? 


GOLDEN  GATE  SUNSET. 

Oh,  the  beauty  of  a  sunset 

Viewed  from  San  Francisco  Bay! 
It  just  seems  to  make  the  soul  let 

Loose  from  earth  and  fly  away 
To  a  land  of  love  and  glory — 

To  a  feast  of  sweet  repose : 
Language  cannot  tell  the  story — 

He  who  sees  it,  only,  knows. 

Oh,  the  loveliness  of  sunset, 

Viewed  from  'Frisco's  Golden  Gate! 
It  lifts  the  soul  where  it  can  get 

A  glimpse  of  heavenly  estate. 
Soul  that's  weary — heavy-laden, 

Bent  beneath  the  chastening  rod, 
When  it  views  a  golden  sunset, 

Touches  hands  with  Nature's  God. 


HELLO,  BILL! 

You  drop  into  a  strange  hotel, 

Where  every  face  to  you  seems  new; 
I  do  not  mean  that  none  are  old, 

But  young  or  old,  they're  new  to  you. 
There  seems  to  be  an  emptiness 

That  naught  but  friendship's  charm  can  fill- 
But  quickly  flies  your  loneliness, 

When  some  old  friend  says,  "Hello,  Bill!" 

You  recognize  the  voice,  and  look 

Around  to  find  from  whence  it  came : 
You  know  its  owner  like  a  book, 

And  call  to  mind  the  social  game 
That  you  two  played  when  last  you  met. 

You  played  your  best  and  paid  the  bill, 
But  what  of  that— you'll  "beat  him  yet." 

Again  he  calls  out,  "Hello,  Bill!" 

Again  you  crane  your  neck  to  see 

Your  dear  old  friend — you  fail  again; 
The  strangers  wink,  yet  try  to  be 

Quite  civil,  just  to  spare  you  pain : 
You  feel  embarrassed,  and  you  guess 

Your  friend  is  hiding  from  you  still; 
But  greater  yet  is  your  distress, 

When  Polly  cries  out,  "Hello,  Bill!" 


DON'T,  MY  BOY,  FEEL  BLUE. 

Sometimes  one  feels  as  if  he'd  lost 

His  last  and  dearest  friend; 
And  that  a  bare  existence  costs 

More  than  one  has  to  spend. 
Should  such  a  feeling  ever  take 

Possession,  boy,  of  you, 
Strain  every  nerve  its  chain  to  break, 

And  don't,  my  boy,  feel  blue. 

No  matter  if  the  cold  should  drop 

Below  the  thirty  line; 
Don't  fume,  and  fret,  and  scold,  but  stop 

And  smile,  and  say  "it's  fine." 
Behind  each  cloud,  however  dense, 

There  is  a  silver  hue; 
Then  exercise  your  common  sense, 

And  don't,  my  boy,  feel  blue. 

Or  if  beneath  the  scorching  rays 

Of  summer's  sun  you're  called 
To  walk,  rough  shod,  plain  duty's  ways, 

Until  footsore  and  galled, 
Go  right  along  with  patient  tread, 

And  whate'er  else  you  do, 
Keep  a  right  heart  and  level  head, 

And  don't,  my  boy,  feel  blue. 

For  every  man  who  does  his  best, 

According  to  the  light 
That  God  has  placed  within  his  breast, 

Is  right — most  surely  right. 
And  when  that  little  silent  guide 

Tells  you  that  what  you  do 
Is  right,  you  may  in  him  confide, 


The  great  highway  that  skyward  leads, 

Goes  not  through  vice  and  crime; 
Its  steps  are  just  the  little  deeds 

Performed,  each  hour  of  time. 
Be  sure,  then,  that  each  act  is  right, 

And  each  heartbeat  is  true ; 
Then  you  will  find  each  day  so  bright 

Twill  dissipate  the  blue. 


NAPPING. 

Keep  still,  Freddie,  just  a  minute — 
Let  me  go  to  sleep — dad-limb-it, 
Can't  you  stop  that  hoo-chee  hoo-chee? 
There  they  come  ker  floochee  floochee, 
Seventeen  goes  into  fifty — 
This  brown  suit  is  rather  nifty; 
See  that  rat  run  'cross  the  floor? 
There  goes  fifty  thousand  more. 
There's  a  monster — Fido,  catch  it! 
Here!  I'll  kill  it  with  my  hatchet— 
Now  we'll  have  a  hen  for  dinner; 
I'll  bet  ten  that  Jeff's  a  winner. 
Rain  or  snow?    I  shouldn't  wonder; 
For  I'm  sure  I  heard  it  thunder. 
Cars  run  off  the  track?    The  dickens! 
Bet  they've  killed  our  hen  and  chickens. 
Stop  that  noise!    Is  that  you,  Freddie? 
"Wake  up,  daddy,  dinner's  ready." 


INCONSISTENT  ENGLISH  SPELLING 

I  hitched  my  best  horse  to  my  sleigh, 
One  very  bright,  crisp  winter  deigh, 

And  struck  out  for  a  ride, 

With  no  girl  by  my  side, 
But  concluded  that  wasn't  the  weigh. 

I  soon  met  a  freind — Kittie  Meigh — 
I  stopped  and  to  Kittie  did  seigh, 

"Come,  please,  have  a  nice  ride, 

Get  in  here  by  my  side," 
But  she  turned  up  her  nose  and  said  neigh. 

As  I  started  again  on  my  weigh, 

She  said,  "  Please  forgive  me,  I  preigh, 

I  mistook  you  for  John, 

For  I  thought  you  had  gone 
Ice-boating  'way  out  on  the  beigh." 

I  forgave  her,  'tis  useless  to  seigh, 

And  she  gave  me  her  heart  that  same  deigh, 

And  I  made  her  my  bride, 

And  now  when  we  ride 
We  need  two  more  seats  on  our  sleigh. 

Although  we  are  now  growing  greigh, 
Our  hearts  feel  as  young  and  as  geigh 

As  they  did  on  that  morn 

When  our  soul  love  was  born, 
Because  it  came  to  us  to  steigh. 


DOT  HEINE  SCHILD. 

Did  you  efer  see  un  ratscal 

Like  dot  leedle  Heine  schild? 
Schust  ogzackly  like  his  fader, 

Und  he  sets  his  moder  vild. 
He  iss  all  der  time  a-teasing 

For  someding  he  couldn't  had, 
Und  he  act  so  cute  und  funny 

Dot  his  moder  can't  pe  mad. 
Yen  he  teases  her  for  sugar 

He  vill  vink  his  oder  eye, 
Und  if  Heine  nix  can  get  it, 

Vy  he  don'd  sot  down  und  gry; 
But  he  dhries  do  explanation, 

Dot  he  said  it  schust  for  fun ; 
Yes,  he  does,  so  help  me  gracious — 

Dot  leedle  son-of-a-gun. 
Und  den  schust  pefore  you  know  it, 

He  vill  haf  vot  for  he  tease: 
He  iss  so  schust  like  his  fader 

As  two  leedle  plackeyed  peas. 
He  iss  schust  so  full  py  mischief, 

He  can't  schleep  ven  he's  avake. 
He  iss  all  der  time  a  dhinking, 

Vot  next  mischief  he  can  make. 
Und  dough  you  know  he  iss  naughty 

Und  somedimes  iss  almost  pad, 
You  schust  cannot  help  but  loafe  him- 

He's  ogzackly  like  his  dad. 


He  iss  schust  so  full  py  mischief. 
He  can't  schleep  ven  he's  avake. 

He  iss  all  der  time  a  dhinking, 
Vot  next  mischief  he  can  make. 


HOG  KILLING 

Twas  the  last  week  before  Christmas, 

In  eighteen  sixty-nine, 
When  Silas  Wilcox  said,  "I  guess 

I'll  kill  that  shoat  of  mine, 
An'  make  a  little  sausage  meat, 

An'  maybe  some  head-cheese; 
Kase  we're  most  out  o'  stuff  to  eat, 

An'  have  but  little  grease 
On  hand  to  grease  the  griddle  with 

When  Sally  bakes  flapjacks — 
So  I'll  just  ask  old  Conrad  Smith 

To  come  an'  fetch  his  ax, 
An'  corncutter  an'  butcher  knife, 

An'  iron  kettle,  too. 
An'  Sal,  he'd  better  fetch  his  wife 

Along  to  help  you  through." 
The  fire  was  built,  beside  a  log, 

The  wagon-box  upset, 
On  which  to  scald  an'  scrape  the  hog 

As  soon  as  they  could  get 
The  water  het  an'  gamble  stick 

An'  gallus  chained  up  tight, 
So  they  could  do  the  job  up  quick, 

An'  know  they'd  done  it  right. 
Well,  Conrad  came  an'  lent  a  hand, 

An'  really  bossed  the  work, 
For  Silas  did  not  understand 

It  all,  but  was  no  shirk. 
When  'twas  all  done  but  cuttin'  up, 

Old  Silas  looked  it  o'er, 
An'  said,  "I'll  bet  my  brindle  pup 

Against  an  apple  core, 


That  all  my  friends  for  miles  around, 

Who  haven't  much  to  eat, 
Will  come  an'  borry  every  pound 

Of  my  fresh  sausage  meat." 
"I'll  tell  you,  Si,"  said  Neighbor  Con, 

"The  best  thing  you  can  do, 
Is  just  to  leave  it  hangin'  on 

The  gallus  all  night  through, 
So  it  will  freeze  a  little  mite, 

An'  that,  by  jucks,  you  know, 
Will  make  it  cut  a  mighty  sight 

Nicer  than  'twill  cut  so. 
An'  in  the  mornin'  'fore  'tis  light 

I'll  come  an'  git  you  out 
Of  bed,  an'  we'll  cut  him  up  right, 

'Fore  anyone's  about. 
An'  then,  tomorry,  when  they  come 

To  borry  your  fresh  meat, 
Why  you  can  tell  'em  all  that  some 

Mean,  ornery,  sneak-thief  cheat 
Come  in  the  night  an'  stole  your  pig, 

An'  they'll  feel  awful  sorry; 
But  if  you  have  none,  then  the  jig 

Is  up — they  cannot  borry. 
Of  course  you'll  have  to  look  your  part, 

An'  speak  jest  like  it's  so, 
An'  act  jest  like  it  breaks  your  heart — 

Like  it's  an  awful  blow — 
Then,  don't  you  see,  they'll  all  go  home 

Without  a  pound  o'  meat, 
An'  maybe  next  time  they  won't  come 

To  you  for  stuff  to  eat." 
"By  grab,"  said  Si,  "That's  what  I'll  do— 

I'll  fool  'em  once,  I  bet, 


An'  all  the  thanks  is  due  to  you, 

You  mustn't  once  forget" 
Old  Conrad  chuckled  in  his  sleeve, 

An'  said,  "I'll  have  that  shoat— 
No  man  can  make  old  Si  believe 

That  I  would  come  an'  tote 
The  whole  durned  hog  to  my  own  home 

In  th'  middle  of  the  night, 
But  you  can  bet  your  neck  I'll  come, 

An'  put  it  out  o'  sight." 
Next  morning,  long  before  'twas  day, 

Old  Silas  'rose  an'  dressed, 
An'  went  to  put  his  pork  away, 

But  found  it  was  no  jest — 
The  hog  was  gone — no  tracks  were  there 

To  tell  which  way  it  went. 
Old  Si  did  everything  but  swear, 

While  trying  to  give  vent 
Unto  his  wounded  feelings,  for 

He  could  not  understand 
How  anyone  near  Battledore 

Could  deal  him  such  a  hand. 
He  went  inside  an'  built  a  fire 

In  their  old  kitchen  stove, 
An'  all  the  while  his  native  ire 

For  supremacy  strove. 
Till  Con  walked  in — "Good  mornin',  Si, 

Am  I  a  little  late? 
I  missed  the  pig  as  I  came  by 

The  little  orchard  gate; 
I  s'pose  you've  got  it  salted  down : 

Gee,  but  you're  awful  smart. 
I  tried  my  best  to  get  around, 

Before  you'd  made  a  start." 


"Yes,  smart  is  it,  you  think  I  am? 

Well,  some  one  else  was  smarter — 
I've  said  all  words  exceptin' — dam, 

An'  haven't  made  a  starter. 
Would  you  believe  me,  Conrad  Smith, 

Some  ornery,  mean,  sneak-thief, 
Come  in  the  night — an'  skipped  out  with 

That  whole  hog — past  belief!" 
"By  jucks!    You  tell  it  well"  said  Con, 

"You  didn't  even  blink — 
You  had  that  solemn  look  upon 

Your  face,  'twould  make  'em  think 
You'd  really  lost  your  hog  an'  half 

Your  doggoned  family. 
It  almost  makes  me  have  to  laugh, 

To  hear  you  tell  it  me." 
"Confound  it,  Con,  it  ain't  no  joke!" 

Old  Silas  then  declared, 
"The  hog  is  gone!    Why,  holy  smoke, 

Who,  think  you,  could  have  dared 
To  come  right  here  ferninst  my  house 

An'  take  that  pig  away? 
No  sausage  now,  nor  any  'souse' 

For  many  an'  many  a  day." 
"Well,  Silas  Wilcox,  I'm  a  cat 

If  ever  I'd  have  thought 
That  you  could  tell  a  tale  like  that, 

An'  make  it  on  the  spot." 
Old  Si  became  sorely  enraged, 

An'  challenged  Con  to  fight, 
An'  soon  they  found  themselves  engaged 

An'  "goin'  to  it"  right. 
Old  Silas  proved  too  much  for  Con, 

An'  so,  to  save  his  life, 


Con  owned  up  to  the  wrong  he'd  done, 

An'  thus  ended  the  strife, 
By  bringing  back  to  Neighbor  Si 

The  shoat  just  as  it  was; 
All  Con  took  home  was  one  black  eye, 

For  which  there  was  just  cause. 


THERE  IS  A  DIFFERENCE. 

There  is  cause  for  many  stings, 

Don't  che  know? 
In  the  way  some  folks  do  things, 

Don't  che  know? 
Some  go  at  it  "hammer  'n'  tongs," 
Some  with  curses,  some  with  songs ; 
But  to  each  some  trait  belongs, 

Don't  che  know? 

Some  have  soured  on  everything, 

Don't  che  know? 
Can't  find  aught  without  a  sting, 

Don't  che  know? 
There  are  others  not  so  sour, 
Who  find  on  every  thorn  a  flower, 
And  for  good  they  are  a  power, 

Don't  che  know? 

As  I've  traveled  life's  pathway, 

Don't  che  know? 
I've  found  grumbling  doesn't  pay, 

Don't  che  know? 
Of  the  kicker  folks  have  tired ; 
He's  no  longer  much  admired, 
From  good  company  he's  been  "fired," 

Don't  che  know? 

As  I  walk  along  the  street, 

Don't  che  know? 
I  look  for  the  good  and  sweet, 

Don't  che  know? 
All  the  sour  ones  I  pass  by, 
And  the  only  reason  why — 
I  couldn't  like  them  if  I'd  try, 

Don't  che  know? 


So,  my  friend,  take  my  advice, 

Don't  che  know? 
Don't  let  me  have  to  tell  you  twice, 

Don't  che  know? 
If  you  would  ever  happy  be, 
Don't  be  sour  with  all  you  see, 
But  be  joyous,  gay  and  free, 

Don't  che  know? 


GOD  IN  NATURE. 

"The  Groves  Were  God's  First  Temples." 

I  wish  you'd  come  with  me  into  the  grove 

And  hear  the  brown  thrush  sing  his  untaught  lay. 
I'm  sure  'twould  fill  your  very  soul  with  love 

And  make  you  want  to  kneel  right  down  and  pray. 
I  wish  you'd  come  and  smell  the  sweet  perfume 

With  which  God's  flowers  have  filled  the  atmosphere. 
Twould  darkened  corners  in  your  soul  illume 

And  make  you  feel  there's  world's  of  pleasure  here. 
I  wish  you'd  come  with  me  down  by  the  lake 

And  see  there,  mirrored  in  its  silvery  face, 
The  trees,  the  clouds,  the  moon,  the  stars.  Twould  make 

Your  soul  rejoice  in  Nature's  love  and  grace. 
I  wish  you'd  come  and  see  the  clinging  vine 

As  round  the  giant  oak  its  tendrils  curl. 
I'm  sure  you'd  say,  "Oh  take  my  hand  in  Thine, 

Dear  Father,  'mid  this  busy  maddening  whirl, 
And  let  me  ever  cling  as  close  to  Thee, 

'Mid  threatening  storms,  as  well  as  weather  fair, 
As  clings  the  helpless  vine  unto  the  tree." 

I  wish  you'd  come  and  with  me  worship  there. 


IN  OLD  KILLARNEY. 

I  started  out  one  evening, 
Just  for  a  little  walk, 

And  took  in  old  Killarney  on  the  way; 
It  was  worth  a  month's  hard  labor 
Just  to  hear  the  women  talk, 
Though  I  can't  remember  all  I  heard  them  say. 

An  automobile  whizzed  along, 
And  soon  sped  out  of  sight, 

While  Mrs.  Murphy  gazed  in  silence  dumb; 
But  she  very  soon  recovered 
When  she  yelled  with  all  her  might, 
"Well,  begorra!  that  thing  do  be  goin'  some!" 

Next  at  Mulcahy's  corner 
Was  a  Victor  phonograph, 

Being  played  by  a  street  fakir,  clothed  in  rags ; 
It  ground  out  "Teddy  Roosevelt," 
And  "Aaron's  Golden  Calf," 
And  "How  Hooligan  and  Murphy  Got  Their  Jags." 

Mrs.  Murphy  stood  and  listened, 
Until  the  show  was  through, 

And  then  she  turned  to  Hennessy  and  said, 
"That  sausage  grinder  told  the  truth, 
And  that's  more  'an  some  folks  do; 
But  Oi'd  loike  to  know  how  it  knows — on  the  dead." 

Just  at  that  moment  all  eyes  turned 
Toward  something  in  the  sky, 

And  "Sure,  help  us,  Howly  Mother,"  some  one  cried, 
"There  comes  Gabriel  wid  his  trumpet, 
And  sure  we'll  have  to  die." 
'Twas  Wilbur  Wright  out  for  an  evening  ride. 


A  BLUFF  ON  CONSCIENCE. 

Fo'  de  Ian'  sakes !    Uncle  Rastus, 

Now  whar  did  yo'  cotch  dat  coon? 
Tain'  ten  minutes  sence  yo'  passed  us — 

You  aint  cotch  him  dat  ar  soon. 
Now  look  heah,  you  ole  black  sinner, 

You  done  stole  dat  coon  somewhar. 
."Gwine  to  roast  him  fo'  yo'  dinner?" 

Won't  you  hab  a  laig  to  spar? 
"No?"    Wai,  now,  I's  mouty  haungry, 

An'  dat  coon  looks  pow'ful  fine, 
But  I  specs  dat  you'll  be  angry 

When  I  tells  you  dat  it's  mine. 
But  as  sho'  as  you's  a  niggah — 

An'  a  wicked  one  at  dat — 
In  dat  skin  dar's  nuffin  biggah 

Dan  yo'  massa's  ole  black  cat. 
I  done  kill  dat  cat  an'  skun  him, 

Put  dat  coonskin  on  instead, 
Den  I  sewed  him  up  an'  hung  him 

On  a  hook  out  in  de  shed, 
An'  de  Lawd  done  whispe'd,  "Liza, 

Dat  black  skunk  dat  stole  yo'  chicks 
Shoah  will  come  along  an'  s'prize  you 

With  his  monkey-doodle  tricks." 
Now  I's  gwine  to  gib  you  wa'nin': 

If  dat  coon  you  cook  an*  eat, 
You'll  drap  dead  'foah  Sunday  mo'nin' — 

Drap  dead  standin'  on  yo'  feet. 
"Foh  de  lub  ob  Moses,  Liza, 

Take  dis  coon  an'  sabe  mah  life ; 
Take  it  right  straight  down  to  Dinah, 

Den  yo'll  be  mah  secon'  wife." 


Now  look  heah,  you  ole  black  sinner. 
You  done  stole  dat  coon  somewhar. 


NEW  PLEDGE  TO  LOVE. 

Until  each  star  outshines  the  sun; 

Until  the  thorn  becomes  a  rose; 
Until  the  rivers  backward  run; 

Until  the  little  molehill  grows 
To  be  a  mountain,  towering  high 

Above  the  clouds;  until  the  sands 
Become  pure  gold,  and  seas  shall  dry 

Their  waters  up;  and  where  now  stands 
The  great  Pikes  Peak  shall  rivers  flow; 

And  until  time  shall  backward  turn, 
And  Solomon's  wisdom  fools  shall  know, 

Within  my  breast,  for  you,  shall  burn 
That  same  old  love  you  kindled  there 

When  but  a  girl.    And  then,  in  turn, 
I  know  I'll  have  your  love  and  care. 


43 


THE  LAND  WHERE  ALL  SWEETHEARTS 
ARE  TRUE. 

Near  the  old  frog  pond,  in  the  edge  of  the  wood, 

Where  the  May  apples  bloom  every  spring; 
Where  the  tall  sugar  trees  for  long  ages  have  stood ; 

Where  the  frogs  help  the  blackbirds  to  sing; 
Where  the  cat-tails  grow  upward,  so  thick  and  so  tall 

That  one  cannot  see  over  nor  through ; 
Where  persimmons  are  ripe  when  the  hickory  nuts  fall — 

That's  the  land  where  all  sweethearts  are  true. 

The  blackbirds  are  there,  of  every  known  kind ; 

Every  rush  holds  a  bird's  nest  or  two; 
And  in  every  swamp-willow  a  nest  one  can  find, 

Filled  with  eggs — green,  brown-speckled  and  blue. 
Where  the  wild  grapevine  to  the  thornapple  clings, 

And  blackberries  are  sweetened  with  dew, 
And  the  soul  feasts  on  love  while  the  mocking  bird  sings — 

That's  the  land  where  all  sweethearts  are  true. 

In  the  land  where  the  melons  are  luscious  and  sweet, 

And  the  juice  of  the  wildgrape  is  fine; 
Where  the  moonbeam's  soft  glimmer  your  lover's  eyes  meet, 

And  her  lips  are  far  sweeter  than  wine; 
Where  the  wild  honeysuckle  fills  the  air  with  its  sweet, 

And  the  white  clover  drinks  up  the  dew; 
Where  the  days  chase  each  other  with  swift  flying  feet — 

That's  the  land  where  all  sweethearts  are  true. 

Where  the  brown  thrush  and  cat  bird  with  each  other  vie, 

In  free  concerts  along  the  old  hedge; 
Where  we  gathered  wild  flowers,  my  sweetheart  and  I, 

Till  we  came  to  the  clear  water's  edge; 


Where  we  sat  on  a  stone  that  seemed  softer  than  down, 
And  the  hours  did  not  creep — they  just  flew; 

And  my  arms,  like  the  hands  on  the  clock,  flew  around 
The  sweetheart  that's  ever  been  true. 


BABY  IMPRESSIONS  PRESERVED. 

When  but  a  tiny  tot,  in  kilt  and  bib, 

And  pretty  crocheted  coat  of  white  and  pink, 
Not  quite  too  tall  to  utilize  the  crib — 

Although  another  claimed  the  crib,  I  think — 
I  climbed  upon  my  mother's  lap  one  day, 

And,  looking  straight  into  her  loving  eyes, 
I  asked,  "Where's  Dod  'ou  talk  to  when  'ou  pray?" 

She  kissed  my  cheek  and  said,  "Up  in  the  skies." 
While  we  were  sitting  on  the  porch  that  eve, 

I  peered  into  the  starry  sky  to  find 
My  mother's  God.    Twas  easy  to  believe; 

No  doubts  had  crept  into  my  baby  mind. 
And  looking  far  into  the  cloudless  sky 

I  found  one  star  much  brighter  than  the  rest 
I  said  to  mother,  "I  tan  see  Dod's  eye; 

He's  looking  wight  down  here  at  'ou,  I  dess." 


THE  A  WFUL  BLUES. 

Have  you  ever  had  a  spell  of  feeling  sort  o'  blue? 

Have  you  wondered  why  you  felt  that  way? 
Have  you  ever  said,  "Old  fellow,  what  next  can  you  do?" 

Have  you  said  that  "nothing  comes  my  way?" 
Have  you  ever  wondered  why  you'd  lost  your  appetite? 

Why  you  did  not  heed  the  dinner  bell? 
And  why  you  felt  that  nothing  was  happening  quite  right? 

Have  you  told  your  friends  to  "go  to ?"    Well, 

Tis  not  a  pleasant  feeling,  I'm  ready  to  admit; 

Yet,  there  is  no  excuse  for  feeling  blue. 
No  one  e'er  made  a  penny  through  a  melancholy  fit, 

Or  changed  his  lot  for  better.    Then  can  you? 
Just  cast  your  eyes  about  you  and  see  your  neighbor's  load : 

Twill  make  your  own  seem  lighter  right  away. 
Forget  your  little  troubles;  keep  the  middle  of  the  road, 

And  soon  your  dismal  night  will  turn  to  day. 


MORNING  SLEIGH  RIDE. 

Winter  morning, 
Frost  adorning 
Every  window  pane  in  town. 
Sleigh  bells  jingling, 
Fingers  tingling, 
We  go  flying  up  and  down 
In  our  cutter, 
Hearts  a-flutter 

As  we  pass  this  friend  and  that; 
Happy  greeting 
At  each  meeting, 
Never  stopping  for  a  chat 
Hurry,  scurry, 
Now  we  hurry, 
Here  a  nod  and  there  a  smile. 
Hi  there!    Go  it! 
Ere  we  know  it 

We  have  gone  more  than  a  mile. 
Sun  is  shining, 
Shadows  lining 
Every  lane  and  every  street; 
Sweetheart  smiling, 
Hours  beguiling, 
Never  pleasure  half  so  sweet 


GOD  WILL  COUNT  YOUR  HONEST  TRY. 

If  in  life's  great,  onward  battle 

You  have  done  your  best  and  lost, 
If  amid  the  din  and  rattle 

You  regarded  not  the  cost, 
If  you  met  your  foeman  bravely, 

If  you  dared  to  do  or  die, 
God  will  credit  you,  most  surely, 

For  your  fearless,  honest  try. 

Have  you  sometimes  felt  discouraged, 

Felt  that  life  had  lost  its  charm, 
And  that  every  effort  failed  you, 

Bringing  to  you  only  harm? 
Look  within  and  ask  this  question : 

"Have  I  done  my  level  best?" 
If  you  answer,  without  guessing, 

"Yes,"  then  God  will  do  the  rest 

Has  this  neighbor  won  more  glory? 

That  one  more  of  earthly  store? 
Though  your  hair  is  thin  and  hoary, 

Are  you  poorer  than  before? 
Have  you  helped,  with  hands  quite  willing? 

Have  you  heard  the  orphan's  cry? 
Given  part  of  your  last  shilling? 

God  will  count  your  honest  try. 


THE  FROG. 

Have  you  ever  wished  when  fretting 

'Bout  the  chilly  air  of  spring, 
When  the  days  are  longer  getting 

And  the  frogs  begin  to  sing, 
Have  you  ever  wished  that  you  could 

Just  change  places  with  the  frog — 
Let  him  shoulder  all  your  trouble 

And  then  leave  you  on  the  log, 
In  the  middle  of  the  mill-pond, 

Nothing  in  the  world  to  do? 
Have  you  wished  you  could  change  places, 

You  be  frog  and  frog  be  you? 
He  don't  fret  'bout  rainy  weather; 

If  the  sun  shines  he  don't  cry; 
He  just  takes  it  all  together; 

Happy  wet  and  happy  dry. 


MY  GOD. 

I  worship  not  a  God  who  only  made 

Great  things — a  God  who  little  things  don't  see. 
The  God  whom  I  adore  peers  through  the  shade 

And  sees  the  ant  beneath  the  giant  tree. 

My  God  sees  'neath  the  robes  of  royalty 
The  vileness,  from  the  world,  heart-hidden  there. 

He  sees  beneath  the  rags  of  poverty 
The  patiently  borne  burden,  and  the  care. 

If  the  great  God  should  no  attention  give 
To  little  things — unnoticed  pass  them  by — 

Then,  great  things,  only,  could  presume  to  live; 
All  tiny  things  would  shrivel  up  and  die. 

I  should  be  numbered  with  the  tiny  things; 

I  could  not  claim  my  Father's  fostering  care — 
This  life,  which  now  to  Him  so  fondly  clings, 

Could  not  say  "Father." — No,  it  would  not  dare. 

No!  thanks  to  Him,  the  worship  of  my  soul 
Goes  out  to 'One  who  hears  the  orphan's  call; 

To  Him  who  makes  the  wounded  spirit  whole; 
To  Him  who  sees  the  little  sparrow  fall. 


GOOD-BYE  OLD  GRIP. 

The  time  has  come  when  we  must  say 

Good-bye.    No  longer  shall  we  roam 
Together,  'mid  the  mist  and  spray 

Of  ocean,  in  the  twilight's  gloam, 
Nor  'cross  the  rugged  peaks  of  snow 

On  mountain  high,  while  sweltering  'neath 
The  scorching  sun,  on  plain  below, 

The  farmer  places  the  cap-sheaf 
Upon  his  stack  of  grain,  and  hies 

Him  homeward  where  a  loving  wife 
Greets  him  with  a  smile,  and  tries 

To  weave  pure  love  into  his  life. 
You've  heard  me,  many  a  time,  when  I 

Felt  blue,  say  things  that  I  would  not 
Have  said  to  one  beneath  the  sky 

But  you — nor  you — but  I  forgot. 
"By  all  the  stars  above  my  head," 

You've  heard  me  promise  to  swear  off 
Smoking,  and,  I  have  sometimes  said, 

"I'll  drink  no  more — "  (confound  that  cough); 
You've  heard  me  promise  not  to  swear 

Again;  and  I'll  give  you  my  hand 
And  cross  my  heart — solemn  as  prayer — 

I  meant  it.    Well,  you  understand. 
You  know  I've  slipped  time  and  again. 

I  meant  all  right,  but  when  I've  met 
The  boys,  that's  all — the  rest  is  plain — 

I  somehow  seemed  to  just  forget 
But  you've  been  true,  and  not  one  wink 

From  you,  Old  Grip,  has  ever  led 
My  friends  or  relatives  to  think 

Wrong  thoughts  of  me — that's  on  the  dead. 


Though  left  here  in  your  attic  home. 
Your  real  home  is  in  my  heart. 


We've  been  close  friends  for  many  a  day; 

My  burdens  you  have  helped  me  bear 
Until  my  hands  grew  corns.    But  say, 

Old  Grip,  you  never  seemed  to  care. 
I've  thrown  you  down  upon  the  floor 

And  left  you  there  alone  to  guard 
My  togs — just  togs — I  had  naught  more; 

And  you  have  proved  a  faithful  pard. 
And  many  a  night  I've  soundly  slept, 

Leaving  within  your  faithful  care 
My  only  socks,  and  you  have  kept 

Them  safely — that  last  holey  pair. 
You  know,  quite  well,  that  night  when  I 

Was  broke — dead  broke — had  not  a  sou 
Left  to  my  name;  and  that  was  why 

We  slept  out  doors  alone,  we  two. 
I  placed  you  underneath  my  head 

And  closed  my  eyes,  and  thought  the  prayer 
Tnat  mother  taught  me;  then  I  said, 

Almost  aloud,  "What  do  we  care?" 
But  now,  Old  Grip,  the  time  has  come 

When,  though  good  friends,  we're  forced  to  part 
Though  left  here  in  your  attic  home, 

Your  real  home  is  in  my  heart 


IT  DOESN'T  PA  Y  TO  FRET. 

Reply  to  a  letter  from  a  friend,  in  which  he  exhibited  a  ereat 
amount  of  worry  over  uncontrollable  conditions. 


MY  DEAR 


When  you  go  out  to  take  a  skate 

Upon  the  slippery  ice, 
Remember,  dear  old  running  mate, 

And  heed  a  friend's  advice. 
Don't  skate  too  far  without  a  breath ; 

Don't  try  too  great  a  speed ; 
Or  you  may  skate  yourself  to  death, 

Of  which  there  is  no  need. 
Just  strike  out  with  an  easy  stroke; 

Just  take  a  moderate  gait; 
Don't  go  too  fast,  yet  do  not  poke ; 

Don't  hurry,  neither  wait. 
Just  try  to  take  things  as  they  are. 

Don't  fret  about  the  weather. 
Accept  Canadian  coin  at  par, 

And  spend  it  all  together. 
You'll  live  as  long — please  don't  forget- 
By  cutting  out  the  worry. 
It's  useless,  quite,  to  fume  and  fret, 

And  just  as  bad  to  hurry. 


IF  WE  BUT  KNEW. 

If  you  but  knew  tomorrow  were  your  last, 
What  would  you  do  today? 
What  leave  undone, 
If  but  tomorrow's  sun 
Twere  thine  to  see?    I  say, 
Would  you  dumfounded  be  and  stand  aghast? 

Or  would  you  go  with  happy  heart  and  free, 
Among  your  fellow  men 
To  the  last  hour? 
And  like  the  fragrant  flower, 
Gently  close  your  eyes,  and  then 
Float  out  in  everlasting  peace  to  be? 

If  you  but  knew  tomorrow  were  your  last, 
And  you  should  meet  today 
An  orphan  child, 
On  whom  no  friend  e'er  smiled, 
What  would  you  do?    I  say, 
Would  you  pass  him  by  just  as  in  the  past? 

If  you  but  knew  tomorrow  were  your  last, 
And  to  your  door  today 
Your  pastor  came, 
Pleading  in  Jesus'  name, 

Would  you  turn  him  away,  , 

And  say,  "At  some  convenient  day,"  as  in  the  past? 

If  I  but  knew  tomorrow  were  my  last 
Day  here  on  earth  to  be, 
Just  the  same  things 
I'd  do — what  duty  brings; 
Then  sleep  would  bring  to  me 
Sweet  visions  of  the  future  and  the  past. 


FRATERNITY. 

Fraternity  is  that  feeling  toward  mankind — 
Without  regard  to  rank,  or  wealth,  or  place — 

Which  makes  a  brother  easy  quite  to  find, 
And  sees  God's  image  in  that  brother's  face. 

Sometimes  the  image  is  so  badly  scarred; 

Almost  beyond  the  recognition  mark; 
Its  life  by  sinfulness  so  badly  marred 

That  all  the  good  combined  is  but  a  spark. 

Yet  the  sweet  spirit  of  fraternity, 
Acknowledging  the  fatherhood  of  God, 

Fails  not  His  likeness  in  that  soul  to  see, 
And  lifts  it  from  beneath  the  chastening  rod. 

The  man  who  thinks  himself  without  a  friend; 

Who  bitterest  dregs  from  sorrow's  cup  has  drained ; 
Who'd  gladly  welcome  death  if  'twould  but  end 

The  hell  on  earth  which  sinfulness  has  gained — 

To  him  fraternity  extends  its  hand 
And  says  "my  fellow  trav'ler,  look  above; 

Let  me  assist  you  on  your  feet  to  stand. 
You  are  God's  child,  and  God  is  love." 


I'M  SADDEST  WHEN  I  SING. 

'Tis  not  because  my  soul  is  filled 

With  love,  or  joy,  or  praise, 
Or,  that  with  sentiment  'tis  thrilled, 

That  tuneful  song  I  raise : 
Tis  not  that  Fortune's  hand  has  dealt 

To  me  more  than  my  share: 
It  does  not  mean  that  I've  not  felt 

The  blight  of  want  and  care ; 
It  simply  means,  I  do  not  want 

My  friends  to  share  the  sting 
That  in  my  heart  is  buried, 

So  I  try  to  smile  and  sing. 
I  trip  about  from  room  to  room 

Light  as  a  bird  on  wing, 
And  sing  and  shout  and  laugh — but  still 

I'm  saddest  when  I  sing. 


DON'T  YOU  DO  IT. 

If  you're  riding  on  the  street  cars, 

And  the  cars  are  full  of  folks, 
And  your  arms  are  full  of  bundles, 

And  the  people  full  of  jokes, 
And  you  stagger  backward,  forward, 

Trampling  on  your  neighbor's  toes, 
And  you  feel  like  saying  cuss  words, 

As  your  armful  heavier  grows, 
Don't  you  do  it. 

If  you  step  into  a  restaurant, 

Just  to  get  a  little  lunch, 
And  some  man  sits  down  beside  you, 

Gives  your  arm  an  awful  punch 
Just  as  you  are  elevating 

All  the  grub  your  fork  will  hold, 
Knocks  it  "seven  ways  for  Sunday" 

And  you  feel  inclined  to  scold, 
Don't  you  do  it. 

If  your  wife  says,  rather  curtly, 

"Henry,  I  must  have  a  hat," 
And  your  purse  is  just  so  empty 

That  you  don't  know  where  you're  at, 
And  you're  just  about  to  tell  her 

One  more  great,  big,  awful  lie, 
'Bout  the  way  you  lost  your  money, 

"Honest  truth"  and  "hope  to  die," 
Don't  you  do  it 


If  you  should  go  home  some  evening 

After  working  hard  all  day, 
And  discover  that  John  Henry 

Had,  while  busy  with  his  play, 
Taken  from  its  case  your  razor 

"Just  to  cut  a  little  stick," 
And  you  yell  out  in  your  anger, 

"Here's  a  boy  I've  got  to  lick," 
Don't  you  do  it. 

If  you  meet  the  boys  at  Dooley's 

And  they  say  "let's  take  a  drink," 
And  your  wife's  without  a  bonnet, 

And  John  Henry — come  to  think — 
Used  your  razor  for  a  jackknife, 

Just  because  he  had  no  knife, 
And  you're  just  about  to  "line  up," 

Don't  you  do  it — on  your  life 
Don't  you  do  it. 


THE  PESSIMIST. 

I  cannot  clearly  understand 

Why  laboring  people  should  be  taxed 
In  this  much-boasted  "Freedom's  land" 

To  educate  those  who  have  waxed 
Fat  from  the  labor  of  the  poor. 

I  do  not  see — it  is  not  clear — 
Why  Uncle  Sam  should  pension  all 

The  soldiers  after  many  a  year 
Of  peace,  since  Abraham  Lincoln's  call 
Of  sixty-one  to  sixty-four. 

If  this  great  rainfall  does  not  stop, 
Within  the  next  twenty-four  hours, 

The  farmers  won't  raise  half  a  crop; 
All  that  we  need  is  just  light  showers: 
I'd  really  like  to  run  the  weather. 

Great  Scott !    This  sunshine  is  a  fright, 
The  crops  can't  stand  this  withering  heat, 

If  it  don't  rain  by  Friday  night, 
There  won't  be  half  a  crop  of  wheat: 
It  may  as  well  go  all  together. 

Old  Parson  Jones  said  Sunday  night, 
"God  deals  with  people  on  the  square, 

And  that  if  people  live  just  right — 
Take  everything  to  God  in  prayer — 
They'll  have  no  reason  to  complain." 

That  may  be  true,  but  I  can't  see 
What  good  'twill  do  for  me  to  tell 

God  everything.    Twixt  you  and  me, 
I  think  we  all  shall  go  to  hell, 
And  I  already  feel  the  pain. 


GOD'S  SUNSHINE. 

If  we  would  only  learn  that  'tis  a  sin 

To  keep  on  fretting  when  the  clouds  hang  low, 
We'd  part  the  blinds  and  let  God's  sunshine  in, 

And  then  how  quickly  would  Love's  flowers  grow. 
And  when  we  feel  that  nothing  is  quite  right — 

That  only  thorns  are  in  our  pathway  strewn — 
If  we  would  part  the  blinds  and  let  the  light 

Of  God's  dear  sunshine  put  our  hearts  in  tune, 
Twould  quickly  change  th'  unpleasant  attitude, 

And  from  our  souls  would  flow  an  earnest  song 
Of  happiness,  and  love  and  gratitude. 

God's  sunshine  quickly  changes  all  the  wrong. 
Envy,  malice  and  strife  will  only  grow 

In  places  where  it  is  as  dark  as  night, 
But  in  their  stead  will  streams  of  blessings  flow 

If  we  will  let  God's  sunshine  give  us  light 


MINNEHAHA—HIA  \VA  THA. 

(H.  W.  L.  Interrogated.) 

When  you  wrote  that  pretty  story 
Of  young  Hiawatha's  wooing, 
Making  love  to  Minnehaha, 
The  old  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Did  you  catch  your  inspiration 
From  the  falling  of  the  waters? 
Did  you  sit  beneath  the  pine-tree, 
List'ning  to  the  chipmunk's  chatter, 
And  the  warbling  of  the  brownthrush? 
Did  you  break  from  blooming  dogwood 
Sprigs  with  fragrant  blossoms  laden, 
Dip  them  in  the  rippling  waters, 
Thus  uniting  dews  from  heaven 
With  the  flowers  of  the  forest? 
Did  the  very  God  of  Nature 
Fill  your  soul  with  love  and  music 
As  you  drank  from  Minnehaha 
Inspiration  for  your  story? 
Ah !    Methinks  I  see  the  stone  now; 
Stone  on  which  you  sat  and  listened — 
Listened  to  the  songs  of  angels 
Echoed  by  the  birds  and  flowers; 
Echoed  by  the  falling  waters; 
Echoed  by  the  wild  surroundings; 
By  the  songs  of  Indian  maidens — 
Dusky  maidens  of  the  forest, 
And  of  little  Laughing-water, 
As  she  sat  on  fallen  pine-tree, 
Laving  bare  feet  in  the  water, 
Singing  of  her  Hiawatha. 
Little  wonder  that  your  musings, 
As  you  sat  in  earthly  heaven, 
Gave  to  us  that  splendid  poem — 
Best  of  all  our  treasured  love  songs. 


Did  you  catch  your  inspiration 
From  the  falling  of  the  waters? 


IN  THE  BEGINNING. 

When  God  created  Adam 

And  a  woman  for  his  mate, 
And  placed  them  in  a  garden, 

Without  a  fence  or  gate, 
Or  walk,  or  bed  of  posies, 

Or  potato  patch,  or  line, 
By  which  to  get  things  straight, 

It  certainly  was  fine. 
There  was  but  one  man  in  the  world, 

With  everything  to  make, 
Without  a  square  or  compass, 

A  plumb-bob  or  a  stake, 
Without  specifications, 

A  pattern  or  a  plan, 
And  so  he  said  to  mother  Eve, 

"I'll  just  do  the  best  I  can." 
Of  all  the  funny  mishaps 

That  ever  came  about, 
The  funniest  of  them  all  occurred 

When  this  couple  started  out 
Adam  tried  to  be  a  blacksmith, 

Undertook  to  shoe  a  mule; 
Concluded  of  all  men  on  earth 

He  was  the  biggest  fool. 
He  next  tried  to  be  a  farmer, 

And  planted  scores  of  seeds, 
But  instead  of  what  he  planted, 

There  grew  little  else  than  weeds. 
He  tried  a  patch  of  sweet  corn, 

But  'twas  very  soon  quite  plain, 
That  instead  of  raising  sweet  corn 

He  had  raised  a  little  Cain. 


Well,  then  he  had  to  scheme  and  plan 

With  not  a  little  care, 
To  increase  his  family  larder, 

And  provide  another  chair, 
And  get  a  few  more  dishes, 

And  readjust  his  table, 
But  he  had  to  readjust  again 

As  soon  as  they  got  Abel. 
And  so  it  took  him  many  a  day 

Before  he  struck  his  gait, 
He  simply  had  to  live  and  learn, 

And  learn  to  live  and  wait 
But  if  he'd  been  onto  his  job, 

As  people  now  would  say, 
He  might  have  been  the  happiest  man 

That's  seen  the  light  of  day. 
He  had  the  loveliest  woman 

To  be  found  in  all  the  land, 
No  other  man  she'd  ever  loved, 

None  e'er  had  sought  her  hand. 
Her  ideal  king  was  Adam; 

Her  throne  was  at  his  feet, 
Such  undivided  love  as  this 

Should  make  happiness  complete. 
Eve  tried  to  make  an  apron, 

To  keep  her  dress  of  fig  leaves  clean, 
She  had  to  sew  it  all  by  hand — 

She  hadn't  a  machine. 
And  when  she  had  it  finished, 

From  what  the  people  say, 
Twould  have  covered  Barnum's  Jumbo 

And  twenty  loads  of  hay. 
Well,  she  was  very  young,  you  know, 

And  one  would  scarce  expect 


A  woman  here  less  than  a  year 

To  make  things  all  connect 
As  well  as  one  of  riper  years, 

Whose  mother'd  taught  her  how 
To  bake,  and  wash,  and  sweep  and  sew, 

And  milk  the  Jersey  cow, 
And  tend  the  baby,  and  all  the  things 

That  girls  now  learn  to  do; 
For,  come  to  think,  she'd  never  been 

A  little  girl  like  you. 
She'd  jumped  at  one  promotion,  from  a 

Rib  in  Adam's  side, 
Taken  out  while  he  was  hypnotized, 

To  a  full  grown,  blushing  bride. 
Her  babyhood  had  been  cut  out, 

Her  school  days  were  non  est, 
And  of  the  average  woman's  life 

She'd  skipped  the  very  best. 
Her  painting  lore  was  nature, 

Her  music  lore  was  song, 
Her  etiquette  simplicity — 

Whether  'twas  right  or  wrong. 


FISHING. 

I  just  take  a  bamboo  pole, 

Linen  line  and  Limerick  hook, 
Make  a  sneak  for  some  deep  hole 

In  the  creek,  in  shady  nook. 
Seat  myself  upon  a  stone, 

Bait  my  hook  and  throw  it  in, 
Sit  there,  quietly,  alone, 

And  wait  to  see  the  fun  begin. 
First  a  nibble,  then  a  take, 

Then  my  float  goes  out  of  sight, 
Then  a  sudden  swing  I  make — 

Got  him?    Well,  you're  mighty  right. 
Bass,  by  jingo!    Weighs  four  pounds; 

Won't  I  have  a  toothsome  fry? 
String  him  on  this  rope,  by  zounds! 

Make  him  safe  or  I'll  know  why. 
Once  again  my  hook  I  bait, 

Once  again  I  cast  my  line, 
Seat  myself  and  watch  and  wait. 

Catching  bass.    Oh,  gee!  it's  fine. 
Soon  the  float  begins  to  sail, 

Then  it  makes  a  sudden  dive; 
Holy  smoke!    I've  hooked  a  whale, 

Just  as  sure  as  I'm  alive. 
Pull,  you  sucker!    Bet  I'll  make — 

Stop!    You'll  surely  break  the  pole. 
Splash!  and  suddenly  I  wake, 

Up  to  neck  in  swimming  hole. 


RESIGN  A  TION. 

Swen  Kittelson,  an  honest  Swede, 

Who  owned  a  Minnesota  farm — 
A  man  of  thrift  but  not  of  greed, 

Who  never  wished  his  neighbor  harm- 
Was  never  known  to  fume  and  fret; 

And  when  things  got  into  a  plight, 
Such  as  would  many  a  man  upset, 

Swen  smiled  and  said,  "Das  ben  ol  rait." 
No  matter  if  the  rain  would  fall 

For  a  whole  week,  both  day  and  night, 
And  weeds  shot  upward  thick  and  tall, 

Swen  smiled  and  said,  "Das  ben  ol  rait." 
Or  if  the  sun  shone  day  by  day, 

Until  the  corn  leaves  rolled  up  tight, 
All  anyone  e'er  heard  Swen  say 

Was,  "Val,  Ay  tank  das  ben  ol  rait." 
A  neighbor  one  day  asked  of  Swen, 

"How  can  you  see  things  in  that  light?" 
Swen  answered,  "Val,  Ay  tank  dat  ven 

God  runs  dose  tings,  Hae  runs  'em  rait. 
And  ven  Hae  vants  to  make  it  rain, 

Or  if  Hae  vants  de  sun  to  shine, 
Ay  tank  it's  foolish  to  complain, 

Per  dat's  God's  business  and  not  mine." 
One  day  Swen  fell  from  scaffold  high : 

The  doctor  said,  "Can't  live  till  night." 
Swen  smiled  and  said,  "Christine,  don't  cry, 

If  I  must  die,  das  ben  ol  rait." 


GUIDE  THOU  MY  STEPS. 

I  do  not  ask  to  have  revealed  today 

Each  step  that  in  tomorrow's  pathway  lies ; 
But  'tis  for  this,  O  Lord,  I  humbly  pray : 
Guide  Thou  my  steps  aright  from  day  to  day. 
If  Thou  wilt  only  let  me  feel  Thy  hand 

At  each  new  step,  while  traveling  toward  the  skies, 
Firm  as  a  rock,  in  fiercest  storm,  I'll  stand; 
Guide  Thou  my  steps  aright  to  Heaven's  land. 
If  through  deep  Sorrow's  vale  I'm  called  to  tread, 

And  darkest  clouds  from  me  Thy  face  doth  hide, 
Let  me  remember  that  my  Lord  hath  said, 
"I'll  never  leave  thee,  though  all  friends  have  fled." 
If  but  Thy  touch,  dear  Savior,  I  may  know, 

Then  Trouble's  sea,  how  rough,  how  deep,  how  wide, 
It  matters  not,  can  ne'er  me  overflow; 
Guide  Thou  my  steps  and  I  aright  shall  go. 


THE  HEM  OF  HIS  GARMENT. 

While  the  throng  pressed  closely  upon  Him, 

And  all  were  so  anxious  to  see 
The  Man  who  was  born  in  Bethlehem — 

Who'd  walked  on  the  blue  Galilee — 
The  Savior  turned  quickly  about,  and 

Inquired  of  the  great  surging  throng, 
" Who  touched  me?"    "Who  hath  put  forth  a  hand?" 

For  out  from  me  virtue  hath  gone. 

It  was  not  the  hem  of  His  garment 

That  made  the  poor  sick  woman  whole. 
There  was  nothing  whate'er  in  His  raiment 

That  could  comfort  a  poor  sin-sick  soul. 
Twas  the  touch  of  the  life  within  Him; 

Twas  the  touch  of  His  love-filled  soul; 
Twas  His  love  that  discovered  her  sin; 

Twas  redemption  that  made  her  whole. 


MY  SCOTCH  COLLIE. 

There's  just  one  little  dog  that's  "worth  his  keep;" 
The  rest  are  only  good  when  they're  asleep. 

"On  the  dead"— "this  is  no  jolly"— 

There's  no  dog  like  my  Scotch  Collie; 
He's  a  "Yankee-doodle  boy"  for  handling  sheep. 

With  the  children  he  is  wonderfully  kind; 
Another  such  a  dog  you  cannot  find; 

He  just  minds  his  business,  too — 

A  thing  which  some  folks  never  do — 
My  Scotch  Collie  has  a  very  active  mind. 

What!  You're  sure  that  my  Scotch  Collie  cannot  think? 
Well,  you  ought  to  see  his  knowing  little  wink 

When  I  drive  home  from  Tangletown 

And  begin  to  lay  my  bundles  down, 
He  just  whines,  and  tries  to  say,  "You've  had  a  drink." 


When  I  drive  home  from  Tangletown 
And  begin  to  lay  my  bundles  down, 

He  just  whines  and  tries  to  say,  "You've  had  a  drink." 


THE  CIGARETTE. 

After  a  careful  study  of  each  habit,  fault  and  fad, 
Just  for  the  simple  sake  of  learning  whether  'twas 

good  or  bad, 

I've  come  to  this  conclusion,  that  I  have  never  yet 
Discovered  one  so  treacherous  as  the  little  cigarette. 

Its  victim  starts  out  thinking  that  he'll  take  a  social 

smoke, 

But  very  soon  discovers  that  his  appetite's  no  joke. 
He  finds  himself  ill-tempered — inclined  to  scold  and 

fret, 
And  then  he  flies,  for  quick  relief,  to  the  little  cigarette. 

He's  quiet  for  a  minute,  but  the  dream's  soon  gone, 

and  then 

He  seeks  a  panacea  in  the  cigarette  again, 
And  soon  the  little  demon  his  victim  will  not  let 
Alone  a  single  minute  without  a  cigarette. 

Tobacco  at  its  very  best  is  but  a  filthy  weed, 

For  which  no  child  of  God  has  ever  had  the  slightest 

need. 

So,  of  all  the  foolish  habits  I  have  in  my  travels  met, 
There's  none  that's  quite  as  foolish  as  smoking  a 

cigarette. 


CHAMPEEN  SPELLER. 

I  reckon,  come  to  make  a  test 

By  the  old-fashioned  rule, 
Matt  Bradbury  could  spell  the  best 

Of  any  girl  in  school; 
An'  she  could  come  most  awful  nigh, 

When  she  was  at  her  best, 
Beatin'  anything,  low  or  high, 

At  a  reg'lar  spellin'  test. 
We  used  to  go  fer  miles  around 

Jes'  to  see  who  could  beat 
A  spellin',  an'  we  never  found 

Her  match  in  lane  or  street 
W'y,  bless  my  soul,  if  I  ain't  seen 

That  girl  stand  up  an'  spell 
For,  I  should  jedge,  fully  fifteen 

Minutes  after  the  bell 
Had  rung  the  missers  down  an'  out, 

An'  never  miss  a  word; 
An'  everybody  most  allowed 

"She's  th'  best  we  ever  heard." 
An'  when  it  come  to  words  like  "tough," 

An'  "phthisic"  an'  "deceive," 
She  didn't  have  to  make  no  bluff, 

You'd  better  jes'  believe. 
She  always  knowed  which  side  to  put 

Th'  bloomin'  i's  an'  e's, 
An'  they're  what  always  fooled  me,  but 

I'm  learnin'  by  degrees. 
One  time  when  all  the  rest  was  down, 

Exceptin'  Matt  an'  me, 
The  teacher  said,  "  Now  we  have  found 

The  two  best  ones,  you  see. 


Now  Matt  an'  Will,  both  do  your  best, 

An'  it  will  soon  be  seen, 
By  just  the  fairest  kind  of  test, 

Who  is  the  reel  champeen." 
The  first  word  that  she  gave  to  Matt, 

I  never  shall  forget, 
Was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  "gnat;" 

An'  I  can  hear  her  yet, 
As  she  begun  to  hesitate 

Between  the  g  an'  k, 
An'  when  she'd  start  it  with  the  one, 

She'd  think,  "That  ain't  the  way." 
But  finally  she  spelt  it  right, 

But  it  sounded  wrong  to  me, 
An'  I  jumped  in  with  all  my  might 

With  k  instead  of  g. 
The  contest  thus  was  settled, 

'Mid  the  wildest  of  applause, 
An'  I  felt  somewhat  nettled, 

To  think  I'd  lost,  because 
I  didn't  have  the  sense  to  wait 

For  teacher  to  say  "Next:" 
Then  I  felt  silly  an'  confused — 

Dumfounded  an'  perplexed. 
But  my  experience  that  night 

At  No.  2  spellin'  school, 
Has  often  helped  to  put  me  right; 

An'  I've  made  it  a  rule 
To  always  look  before  I  jump, 

An'  know  the  way  is  clear. 
An'  I've  concluded  after  all, 

The  lesson  wasn't  dear. 


PARODY  ON  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

Tell  me  not,  ye  chronic  grumblers, 

Life  is  but  a  mere  machine, 
Used  to  help  out  licensed  plumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real:  Life  is  earnest; 

And  the  man  who  burns  soft  coal 
Every  day  to  dust  returnest. 

Winter  uses  up  his  roll. 

Not  enjoyment  'tis  to  borrow 

Cash  to  pay  the  baker's  bill, 
For  we  know  that  each  tomorrow 

Finds  less  money  in  the  till. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts  grow  faint  and  weak, 

While  our  grocer's  bills  we're  beating, 
And  we  scarcely  dare  to  speak. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  this  busy,  rushing  life, 
We  are  like  dumb  driven  cattle, 

Victims  of  the  butcher's  knife. 

"Trust  you?  No!"  Look  e'er  so  pleasant- 
Though  he  knows  we're  but  half  fed; 

"Can  not  trust  you  just  at  present," 
The  hard-hearted  butcher  said. 

Lives  of  some  men  now  remind  us, 

We  can  dine  on  half  a  dime, 
And  departing  leave  behind  us 

Debts  to  pay  some  other  time. 


Small  debts  that,  perhaps,  some  other 
Time,  when  luck  has  turned  our  way, 

We  can  pay,  and  make  another 
One,  too  large  to  try  to  pay. 

Then  let  us  be  up  and  "doing" 

Every  fellow  that  we  meet, 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing 

Some  rich  guy  whom  we  can  beat 


GRAN'MA. 

Who  is  it  always  takes  the  part 

Of  little  Freddie  Green, 
And  says,  "God  bless  his  little  heart," 

When  sister  says  "he's  mean"? 
Who  pats  the  little  toddler's  head, 

And  calls  him  "little  man," 
And  spreads  more  butter  on  his  bread? 

Is  it  his  sister  Ann? 
Tis  gran'ma. 

Who  is  it  wipes  the  little  tears 

From  Freddie's  weeping  eyes, 
And  whispers  love  words  in  his  ears 

Whenever  Freddie  cries? 
Who  "knows  it  hurts  most  awful  bad" 

When  Freddie  stubs  his  toe? 
And  when  his  little  heart  is  sad 

To  whom  does  Freddie  go? 
Tis  gran'ma. 

Who  trots  the  little  barefoot  tot 

Upon  her  tired  knee, 
And  gives  him  "des  one  ozzer  trot," 

And  then  "des  one,  two,  free"? 
Who  sings  the  darling  boy  to  sleep? 

Who  tucks  him  in  his  cot, 
And  prays  "Dear  Lord,  our  baby  keep"? 

Is  't  Ann?    Well,  if  'tis  not, 
Tis  gran'ma. 


Who  g;ves  him  "des  one  ozzer  trot," 
And  then  "des  one,  two,  free"? 


DOING  NOTHING. 

The  hardest  job  I've  ever  tried, 
In  summer,  winter,  spring  or  fall, 

Whether  alone  or  by  the  side 
Of  helpers — matters  not  at  all — 
Is  doing  nothing. 

Just  think  of  having  not  a  thing 
On  earth  to  busy  hand  or  brain. 

I  know  not  of  a  sharper  sting, 
Nor  one  'twould  give  me  keener  pain 
Than  doing  nothing. 

Just  eat  and  sleep  and  mope  around; 

No  good  deed  done,  no  kind  word  said, 
No  darkened  corner  sought  or  found, 

Where  sunshine  might  with  ease  be  shed- 
Just  doing  nothing. 

Kind  Fate,  spare  me  from  such  a  lot. 

I'd  sooner,  far,  be  numbered  with 
The  silent  sleepers  in  some  spot 

Where  naught  is  known  of  kin  or  kith, 
Than  doing  nothing. 


THE  LITTLE  JAP. 

Written  at  the  Beginning  of  the  Jap-Russian  War. 

The  little  Jap  is  just  the  chap 

To  tan  a  Russian  Bear  skin. 
He  gets  a  tip  and  up  he'll  slip; 

Bear  finds  himself  a  trap  in. 

You  may  depend,  Jap  has  a  friend 

In  Wun  Lung  Johnee  Chinee. 
Bear  hears  a  soundr— he  looks  around — 

John's  gonee,  can  no  findee. 

I  guess— don't  you? — when  Bear  gets  through, 
He'll  wonder  what  has  happened; 

But  bear  in  mind — he'll  surely  find 
It's  happened  at  the  Jap  end. 

But  Bear  will  be  more  wise,  you  see, 
Next  time  he  feels  like  scrapping; 

He'll  look  about  with  gravest  doubt, 
Before  he  starts  out  Japping. 


STRANGE,  BUT  TRUE. 

Jack,  isn't  this  a  queer  old  world? 

And  aren't  the  people  funny? 
From  unknown  space  somewhere  they're  hurled, 

And  begin  to  grab  for  money 
Soon  as  they  on  terra  firma  light 

And  get  a  solid  foothold. 
My  word !    It  certainly  is  a  fright 

The  way  some  do,  so  I'm  told. 
But,  Jack,  you've  never  seemed  to  care 

A  rap  for  dimes  or  dollars. 
You've  always  been  content  to  wear 

Plain  clothes,  and  sometimes  collars 
That  were  not  just  the  latest  style; 

Sometimes  you've  gone  bare-handed 
When  it  was  cold,  and  still  you'd  smile; 

And,  really,  to  be  candid 
With  you,  I  have  sometimes  wondered 

Why  you  always  seemed  so  willing, 
When  you'd  meet  someone  who'd  blundered, 

To  divide  your  bottom  shilling. 
Yes,  I  remember,  very  well, 

When  little  barefoot  Susie 
Came  straight  to  you  her  tale  to  tell 

'Bout  bootblack  and  the  newsie, 
Who  had  "not  had  a  bite  to  eat 

Since  yesterday  at  dinner." 
You  fed  all  three — My !    What  a  treat — 

A  treat  that  was  a  winner. 
You've  "divied"  with  the  hobo,  too, 

When  he  looked  cold  and  seedy; 
It  seemed  to  be  enough  for  you 

To  know  that  he  was  needy. 


You've  never  turned  a  deafened  ear 

To  one  weighed  down  with  sorrow; 
You've  always  dried  the  orphan's  tear; 

You've  loaned  to  those  who'd  borrow; 
You've  never  been  a  selfish  man; 

You've  always  thought  of  others — 
If  everyone  would  try  that  plan, 

They'd  have  a  million  brothers. 
Well,  "What's  the  dif?"    When  Gabriel  blows 

He'll  open  up  the  wicket 
And  ask — not  "How  about  your  clothes?" 

Or,  "Have  you  got  a  ticket?" 
But  he  will  grasp  your  hand  and  say, 

"It's  you  I'm  pleased  to  meet,  sir," 
And  introduce  you,  by  the  way, 

To  his  old  friend,  Saint  Peter. 
Well,  Peter  will  not  care  to  know 

'Bout  Taft  or  Billy  Bryan, 
Or  which  you  voted  for  below, 

Or  if  you've  been  a  tryin' 
To  get  more  stock  in  Standard  Oil, 

Or  if  you've  threshed  your  barley. 
Oh,  no,  though  Peter  knows  it  all 

He  will  not  stand  and  parley; 
He'll  simply  turn  to  your  account 

And,  glancing  o'er  its  pages, 
He'll  quickly  know  the  whole  amount— 

(He's  had  that  job  for  ages). 
And  while  you're  shedding  of  your  togs, 

Preparing  for  hot  weather, 
He'll  turn  to  you  and  say,  "Hold  on, 

Just  go  in  all  together," 
And,  opening  up  the  pearly  gates, 

To  heaven  he'll  admit  you. 


Good-bye,  old  man,  we've  long  been  mates, 

But  here  I'll  have  to  quit  you. 
Tis  not  because  I  could  not  gain 

Admittance,  Jack,  with  you, 
But  just  because  I  must  remain 

Awhile.    I've  work  to  do. 


TRUST  LESSONS. 

Just  a  tiny,  little  bird  flew  down  upon  the  ground, 

And  with  seeming  satisfaction  swallowed  what  he  found; 

Then  flew  back  to  the  branches  of  a  nearby  apple  tree, 

Seemingly  as  happy  as  a  little  bird  could  be. 

Not  a  trace  of  worry  could  I  see  upon  his  face, 

Though  I  knew  that  he  knew  not  either  the  time  or  place : 

When  or  where  he'd  gather  crumbs  for  his  next  little  meal. 

Then  I  thought  I'd  give  the  world  if  I  could  only  feel 

Such  simple  and  abiding  trust  in  my  own  Father's  care, 

As  little  birds  are  teaching  to  men  everywhere. 

Just  a  tiny  rabbit  from  his  fur-lined  burrow  crept — 

Where  through  the  hours  of  sunshine  he  had  securely  slept — 

To  nibble  leaves  from  clover,  and  his  thirst  to  slake, 

Then  back  into  his  burrow  another  nap  to  take. 

Not  a  sign  of  worry  could  be  seen  in  act  or  look: 

I  know  that  bunny  did  not  learn  that  trust  from  any  book. 

Then  why  should  I  not  have  that  trust  in  my  own  Father's 

care, 

That  little  rabbits  teach  to  doubting  people  everywhere? 
A  father  placed  his  little  child  upon  an  open  wall, 
And  said,  "Now  jump,  my  little  man — papa  won't  let  you  fall : 
Jump  into  papa's  arms,  my  boy — I'll  surely  catch  you,  dear." 
The  child  leaped  to  his  father's  arms,  without  a  sign  of  fear. 
Why  is  it  when  my  Father  calls  to  me,  I  hesitate, 
And  doubt,  and  wait,  and  falter,  and  talk  of  unkind  fate, 
And  pray  to  be  excused  from  all  unpleasant  work? 
Such  conduct  in  a  child  of  mine  would  brand  him  as  a  shirk. 
I  cannot  understand  why  I  don't  trust  my  Father's  care, 
With  that  sweet  trust  that's  being  taught  by  children  every 
where. 


Just  a  tiny  rabbit  from  his  fur-lined  burrow  crept— 


A  DREAM  OF  MOTHER. 

How  frail  my  words!    How  weak- 
How  light  as  chaff  they  fly; 
How  like  the  infant's  prate; 
How  meaningless  they  seem 
When  mother's  name  I  speak. 
Tis  only  when  I  dream 
That  she  is  here,  that  I 
Can  find  words  adequate 
Her  virtues  to  express. 
Oh,  how  I  love  to  dream 
That  from  that  world  on  high, 
Where  loved  ones  congregate, 
She  comes  to  earth  to  bless 
Her  child,  and  tell  to  him 
The  story  of  the  cross. 
I  love  to  dream  that  she 
Is  present  in  my  room. 
Death  seems  to  me  less  grim; 
Earth's  pleasures  more  like  dross; 
When  her  dear  face  I  see, 
Less  dreadful  seems  the  tomb. 


SPIRIT  OF  DISCONTENT. 

(Clear  Down  the  Line.) 

A  man  of  wealth  grew  tired  of  life 

And  said,  "I'd  give  up  everything 
If  I  could  only  end  this  strife 

And  be  a  president  or  king." 
A  poor  man  saw  this  man  of  wealth 

Go  driving  by  in  splendid  style. 
He  said,  "I'd  sacrifice  my  health 

If  I  could  just  be  him  awhile." 
A  negro  met  this  man  of  toil, 

And  envious  of  his  frame  robust, 
Complained  because  the  gumbo  soil 

In  himself  was  not  lighter  dust. 
A  monkey  saw  the  colored  man, 

And  heard  his  talk — it  raised  his  spunk. 
He  said,  "I'd  rather  be  a  man 

Ten  days,  than  twenty  years  a  monk." 
A  little  pig  gazed  at  monk's  face, 

Then  looking  toward  the  sausage  can, 
He  said,  "I'd  like  to  take  monk's  place; 

He'll  never  be  chewed  up  by  man." 
A  rat  crept  from  a  near-by  hole, 

And  listening  to  the  piggie's  squeal, 
Said,  "Pig  is  sure  a  thankless  soul — 

He's  fed  while  I  am  forced  to  steal." 
A  little  mouse  crept  slyly  by, 

And  noticing  rat's  discontent, 
Said,  "Great  big  baby,  he,  to  cry — 

With  his  size  I'd  not  care  a  cent." 
A  caterpillar  saw  the  mouse 

Go  scampering  by  at  breakneck  speed, 
To  hide  within  its  little  house, 

And  said,  "It  makes  my  poor  heart  bleed 


To  see  the  ease  with  which  you  run, 

Until  I  think  of  some  poor  worm, 
For  which  there  is  no  life  to  come. 

I  soon  shall  fly  instead  of  squirm." 
After  the  mousie  thought  it  o'er, 

He  said,  "'Tis  better,  after  all, 
To  scamper  'cross  the  attic  floor, 

Than  be  a  worm  and  have  to  crawl." 
The  rat  heard  what  the  mousie  said, 

And  seemed  to  know  just  what  it  meant, 
For  from  the  hole  he  poked  his  head, 

And  said,  "Henceforth  I'll  be  content." 
The  pig  looked  up  the  line,  then  down, 

And  looking  down  he  felt  ashamed 
To  think  that  he  had  ever  found 

Fault  with  his  lot — much  worse,  complained. 
The  monkey  scampered  through  the  boughs 

Of  a  well-loaded  coc'nut  tree, 
And  made  a  half  a  dozen  vows 

That  he'd  be  thankful  he  was  he. 
And  then  the  negro  fell  in  line, 

And  said,  "I'm  glad  that  I'm  a  man: 
You  never  more  shall  hear  me  whine 

About  my  color — black  or  tan." 
The  man  of  wealth  saw  his  mistake, 

And  prayed  forgiveness  for  his  wrongs, 
And  said,  "I'll  henceforth  try  to  make 

Good  use  of  what  to  me  belongs." 
The  king  looked  on  and  in  despair 

Said,  "I  would  give  my  crown  to  be 
As  free  from  sorrow  and  from  care, 

As  all  these  creatures  seem  to  be." 


DINNER  TABLE  D'HOTE. 

Hungry,  Bill?    Well,  I'd  just  remark, 

1  never  felt  such  emptiness; 
I  could  just  strip  a  log  of  bark, 

And  eat  the  log  without  distress. 

Well,  here  we  go.    What's  on  the  card? 

I'll  have  blue  points,  and  pickles,  too. 
Now  that  is  just  a  starter,  pard; 

My  palate  tickles  through  and  through. 

Now,  waiter,  bring  a  nice  black  bass, 
In  butter  drawn,  and  cooked  well-done; 

And  lobster— No,  I'll  let  that  pass, 
I  mentioned  that  only  in  fun. 

Next  comes  the  entrees :  Let  me  see, 
I'll  have  fried  chicken,  country  style — 

Yes,  that  is  just  what  mine  shall  be — 
And  then  some  roast  lamb  after  'while. 

And  vegetables:    I'll  take — well, 
Baked  sweet  potatoes,  Lima  beans, 

Asparagus  and — that  corn's  swell — 
And  flageolets  and  mustard  greens. 

For  salad — well,  I  think  I'd  like 
Some  chicken  salad  mayonnaise; 

I'd  have  fish  salad  if  'twere  pike, 
But  chicken's  all  right,  if  you  please. 

Next,  cold  meats;  and  I  don't  care  much 

What  kind  I  have  if  'tis  but  cold ; 
Pig's  feet  and  sauerkraut  sounds  like  Dutch, 

But  what  of  that?    It's  good  as  gold. 


Deserts:    Now  that's  so  near  the  end, 
If  I  expect  to  get  filled  up 

I  must  upon  desert  depend; 
So  bring  black  coffee — a  large  cup, 

And  apple — no,  gooseberry  pie, 
And  grapes,  and  some  limberger  cheese, 

And — yes,  I'll  eat  it  if  I  die — 
English  plum  pudding,  if  you  please. 

No,  thank  you,  I  don't  care  for  more; 

I'm  dieting.    I  might  say  here 
That  Dr.  Pinchtop  told  me  four 

Long  weeks  ago  I  need  not  fear 

Those  cutting  pains  I've  had  so  long, 

If  I  but  follow  his  advice; 
He  says  that  there  is  nothing  wrong 

With  heart  or  lungs — yes,  said  it  twice. 

Said,  "All  you  need  now,  Mr.  Jones, 
Is  just  to  choose  your  food  with  care; 

The  reason  you  are  skin  and  bones 
Is,  too  much  on  your  bill  of  fare. 

"Just  try  to  guard  your  appetite, 

And  eat  as  little  as  you  can, 
And  soon  you'll  find  yourself,  all  right; 

I'll  bring  you  out  again  a  man." 

So,  knowing  that  my  health  depends 
Upon  my  fasting  for  awhile, 

Though  dining  with  my  closest  friends, 
I  think  of  health  rather  than  style. 


SPOOKS. 

(The  Only  Kind  Ever  Known.) 

Say,  Jim,  le's  run  over  to  Brown's  back  yard, 

An'  hide  behind  their  ol'  shed,  over  there, 
An'  holler  "hoo-hoo,  Sam,"  "hi  there,  ol'  pard," 

An'  make  Sam  wonder  where  on  earth  we  are. 
An'  when  he  comes  a  peekin'  roun'  the  shed, 

We'll  hide  under  that  ol'  pile  o'  hay, 
An'  make  Sam  think  it's  spooks  riz  from  the  dead, 

A  callin'  him  to  come  out  doors  an'  play. 
An'  when  he  runs  into  the  house  to  tell 

His  ma  "there's  spooks  out  in  the  sheds," 
We'll  holler  "hoo-hoo"  loud  as  we  can  yell, 

An'  then  crouch  down  an'  cover  up  our  heads. 
"Oh,  no,"  said  Jim,  "  'twould  be  like  Sam  to  go 

An'  get  a  pitchfork  an'  some  big,  long  knives, 
An'  maybe  their  ol'  meat  ax  an'  a  hoe, 

'N'en  I  wouldn't  give  a  penny  for  our  lives." 


We'll  hide  under  that  ol'  pile  o'  hay 

An'  make  Sam  think  it's  spooks  riz  from  the  dead. 


THANKSGIVING. 

Another  year  has  passed,  and  with  it  many  a  life 

Has  closed  its  record  upon  earth's  great  active  stage, 
And  registered  with  the  immortal  throng,  where  strife 

For  place,  and  wealth,  and  honor  has  no  book,  no  page. 
We  are  still  here,  with  homes  and  friends,  and  all  we  need 

To  make  life's  pathway  pleasant  and  enjoyable. 
Then  let  us  all,  with  thankful  hearts,  give  earnest  heed 

To  Him  whose  hand  hath  led  us  thus  to  joys  so  full.. 


UNCLE  JOSH'S  OPINION  ON  POETIC 
LICENSE. 

I  can't  see  no  use  in  poets  havin'  licenses  to  write, 
In  case  they  mean  to  tell  the  truth  or  keep  it  well  in 

sight 
But  maybe,  though,  it  ain't  supposed  that  folks  like 

me  should  know: 

Anyhow,  they've  got  'em  whether  it's  right  or  no. 
Perhaps  that's  jest  the  reason  why  Miss  Wilcox  dares 

to  say 
So  many  things  that  jest  don't  seem  could  happen  that 

a'way. 

She  says,  "  Unto  each  mortal,  whoever  comes  to  earth, 
God  gives  a  great  long  ladder  jest  at  the  time  of  birth; 
And  that  a  feller  has  to  climb  from  that  day  till  he  dies, 
And  if  he  climbs  the  proper  gait,  'twill  land  him  in  the 

skies." 
Now,  them  may  not  be  jest  her  words  but  they  are 

mighty  near: 
But  the  how  about  that  ladder  never  seemed  to  me 

quite  clear. 

But  then  she's  got  a  license  and  she  can  write  off-hand, 
A  lot  of  stuff  that  sounds  quite  nice  that  folks  can't 

understand. 
You  see,  with  poets'  license  one  can  say  that  black  is 

white, 

Providin'  that  he  says  it  jest  to  make  it  jingle  right; 
And  he  can  say  to  lose  a  friend 's  a  blessin'  in  disguise, 
That,  good  or  bad,  he's  gone  to  wear  a  crown  up  in 

the  skies. 
Why,  ding  it  all!  it  makes  me  sore,  the  stuff  some 

poets  write; 
If  I  was  only  license  clerk,  I'd  revoke  'em  left  and 

right. 


Why  not  make  poets  tell  the  truth  and  call  a  hoe  a  hoe? 
And  not  twist  words  to  make  'em  mean  what  is  so 

isn't  so. 

Some  poets  try  to  make  us  think  that  hell  ain't  hell  at  all, 
And  that  the  world  is  none  the  worse  because  of 

Adam's  fall; 

And  some  go  on  the  theory  and  undertake  to  tell 
That  if  a  man  has  toothache  it  hurts  just  as  bad  as  hell. 
One  poet  says  that  "Conscience  makes  cowards  of 

us  all." 
By  Jucks,  if  he  thinks  I'm  afeard,  I'd  like  to  have  him 

call 
And  give  me  jest  one  chance  to  prove  that  I'm  no 

coward  yet; 

And  if  he's  got  his  purse  along,  I'll  post  a  little  bet 
That  I  can  prove — and  make  it  plain — that  what  he 

writ  ain't  so, 
And  that  his  poets'  license  is  the  thing  that  makes  him 

blow. 

I'm  givin'  notice  here  and  now  that  I'm  a  candidate 
For  the  office  of  the  license  clerk,  be  it  county,  town 

or  state, 

And  if  elected,  I  propose  to  raise  the  license  price; 
And  if  that  plan  don't  stop  this  thing,  I'll  make  'em  pay 

it  twice. 


THE  NURSE. 

There  are  some  people  in  the  land 
Who  really  do  not  understand 
That  an  angel  nurse  is  but  the  hand 
Of  God  extended. 

They  seem  to  think  to  be  a  nurse 
Is  naught  less  than  a  blight  or  curse 
Upon  her  life — that  nothing  worse 
Could  be  invented. 

They  do  not  seem  to  think  or  know 
That  sickness,  suffering  and  woe 
Do  not  stand  half  as  great  a  show 
Where  the  good  nurse  is. 

They  forget  that  the  Savior  said, 
"Go  heal  the  sick  and  raise  the  dead," 
And,  "Feed  the  hungry  people  bread." 
(Their  god  their  purse  is.) 

"Clothe  ye  the  naked,  help  the  poor, 
Assist  the  needy  within  thy  door; 
Thus  lay  up  treasures  ever  more 
In  highest  heaven." 

The  nurse — sweet  angel  from  above, 
Whose  very  soul  is  naught  but  love — 
Her  every  act  doth  serve  to  prove 
She  is  God-given. 


HEAVEN. 

The  sweetest  thoughts  of  heaven,  that  come  to  me, 

Are  of  the  vast  unfolding  of  the  mind; 
Ever  expanding,  until  eternity 

Shall,  to  itself,  a  limitation  find. 
Then  I  shall  find  in  my  redeemed  soul, 

A  likeness  of  the  ever  living  God; 
And,  looking  outward  o'er  Time's  endless  scroll, 

Discern  the  pathway  by  the  Savior  trod. 
The  reuniting  there  with  kindred  souls; 

Th'  wakening  to  a  real  sense  of  Him; 
Rejoicing  as  the  soul  itself  unfolds; 

Compared  with  that,  this  earthly  light,  how  dim! 


TEE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-25m-9,'47(A5618)444 


Damson  -_ 
Siinshine  of 
ho-pe  and  other 
poems 


PS 
152U 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000034994  4 


